Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: "Reunion of Old Shadows" at Soho Bar

The rain in Chelsea showed no sign of stopping. Seraphina dragged her suitcase for half an hour, and the mud splatters on the soles of her shoes had stained the hem of her camel coat. The loft in Kensington was her only home, but now it had become a past she dared not look back on. She scoured her phone contacts, yet couldn't find a single person she could stay with—over the past two years, as she revolved around Clara, her social circle had long shrunk to a single point. The rain seeped into her collar, making her shiver with cold. Suddenly, the neon light at the corner flickered on. The wooden sign of "The Owl's Nest" glowed with a warm light through the rain and mist, and the sound of blues piano, wrapped in the aroma of whiskey, drifted out, like a pair of gentle hands gently pulling her. The moment she pushed the door open, the damp, cold air was shut out. The bartender behind the counter was wiping a glass with a cloth. On the wall hung a 1960s jazz poster; in the yellowed photo, a Black saxophonist was playing with his eyes closed. Seraphina found a corner seat, leaned her suitcase against the table leg, and said in a hoarse voice, "A vodka martini, extra ice." As soon as the salt on the rim of the glass touched her tongue, the sharp saltiness stung her eyes, making them burn. She lowered her head, staring at the ice cubes in the glass, watching her blurry reflection—her curly hair, wet from the rain, stuck to her cheeks, looking as disheveled as a stranded fox. "Ginger ale, no sugar." A清冷的 female voice suddenly sounded beside her, carrying a familiar cedar scent. Seraphina froze, her heart feeling as if it were being clutched by a hand—this voice, she had remembered it for six years. She slowly looked up and met a pair of dark brown eyes. Elara Hale was twirling a transparent glass with her fingertips, her slender shoulders wrapped in an ivory turtleneck sweater, and the ends of her hair still dotted with raindrops, like unmelting snow on a winter day in Cambridge. She was calmer than she had been six years ago, her jawline tight and straight, yet unable to conceal the delicacy of her features—a high, straight nose, thin, pale lips, and those eyes that always held a sense of detachment, now fixed on her face with a barely perceptible scrutiny. Memories of the 2017 Cambridge Art Department graduation exhibition suddenly flooded in. That day, her *Nocturnal Fox* and Elara's *Stellar Orbit Atlas* hung side by side in the center of the exhibition hall. The eyes of her fox held the bustle of the streets, while Elara's starry orbits were filled with cold geometric lines. Later, she mustered the courage to confess to Clara, only to receive the reply, "I like more mature people." Through tear-blurred eyes, she casually tossed the unsent love letter to Elara, who was passing by, then turned and ran into the rain. Still later, classmates said they saw Elara throw the letter into the Cam, and that "Seraphina's feelings are as cheap as discounted candy in a supermarket." "Long time no see, Seraphina," Elara spoke first, tapping her指尖 lightly on the table. "You don't look well." Seraphina pulled at the corner of her mouth, downed the wine in her glass in one go. The burning sensation of the alcohol slid down her throat, but it couldn't suppress the pain in her chest. "I didn't expect to run into you here, Miss Hale—or should I call you 'Director Hale' now?" She had seen Elara's interview in *London Art Weekly* the previous week: at 30, she founded the "Stellar Veil" digital art studio, and her "Stellar Orbit" series, launched in collaboration with the British Museum, had taken London by storm. Her father, Arthur Hale, was also a renowned professor at the Royal College of Art. The "bookworm" who had always been top of the class back then had now become someone she looked up to. Elara didn't respond to her teasing, but pushed her ginger ale over. "Drink less hard liquor; it'll upset your stomach." Her fingertips brushed Seraphina's手背, carrying the coolness of cedar hand cream, exactly the same scent as in her memories. "I saw the promotional material for Clara's gallery exhibition. Your *Nocturnal Fox* is stunning." At the mention of Clara, Seraphina's fingers paused. She had wanted to brush it off, but the alcohol had weakened her defenses—all the grievances of the past six years, the efforts of the past two years, and the betrayal she had just uncovered, she suddenly wanted to talk to someone about it all. "I broke up," she said, her fingers tracing circles on the wall of the glass. "I thought we'd be together forever, but she was just using my paintings, and even thought my style 'wasn't good enough for her.'" Elara didn't speak, but took a dry woolen scarf from her bag and held it out to her. "London rain seeps into the bones. Put this on." The scarf still carried her cedar scent; wrapped around her neck, it dispelled most of the chill. "Did you... really throw that love letter into the Cam back then?" Seraphina asked, almost as if possessed, the question she'd held in for six years finally escaping. Elara's fingertips paused. She twirled the glass half a turn in her hand before replying softly, "No. I kept it in my *Collected Poems of Yeats*. Later, I wanted to return it to you, but I saw you go to a café in Cambridge with Clara." The blues piano music behind the bar suddenly slowed down. The warm light fell on Elara's profile; her eyelashes were long, casting a faint shadow under her eyes when she lowered them. Seraphina's heart ached sharply—so the "incompatibility" of those years had just been a missed opportunity, a misunderstanding. When the bar's closing bell rang, the rain still hadn't stopped. Elara picked up her coat and said to Seraphina, "There's a hotel nearby. I've booked two rooms; you can stay there for now." Seraphina didn't refuse. She followed Elara into the rain, the wheels of her suitcase making a dull sound on the stone pavement. Passing a 24-hour convenience store, Elara suddenly stopped, went in, and bought hot milk and sandwiches. "Drinking on an empty stomach isn't good." The mirror in the elevator reflected their overlapping shadows. Seraphina's hand accidentally brushed Elara's wrist; the other woman's temperature was slightly higher than hers, carrying a steady warmth. When they reached the door of the room, Elara suddenly turned around, her dark brown eyes shining like stars in the warm light. "Seraphina, are you sure?" Her voice was soft, but earnest—not Clara's perfunctory tone, but a genuine concern for her wishes. Seraphina looked at the nervousness in her eyes, thinking of the rain in Cambridge six years ago, of the betrayal she'd just uncovered, and, almost as if possessed, nodded. The door was gently pushed open. Elara's cedar scent surrounded her, drawing her into a warm embrace. The rain was still falling outside the window, but it seemed it could no longer reach her heart.