Chapter 9 The Confession
"I need to tell you something," Alaric says.
His voice is calm, but his hands betray him. His fingers lace together, then pull apart, then lace again, as if they cannot decide whether to hold on or let go. He does not look at me when he speaks. His gaze is fixed on the far wall of the shop, on a place where the shelves dip inward like they are tired of standing straight.
I don't answer right away.
I'm afraid that if I speak, whatever fragile courage he's gathered will break.
So I nod.
"Okay," I say softly.
He exhales through his nose, a sound that feels like it's been trapped in his chest for years.
"You already know I've lived longer than I should have," he says. "You've known it since the first time you looked at me like you were counting the years in my face and couldn't find them."
"That's not " I start, then stop. He's right. I have done that. More than once.
"I don't age," he continues. "Not the way you do. Not the way anyone does."
The words hang between us. They don't feel dramatic. They feel heavy. Ordinary in the way truth often does when it has waited too long to be spoken.
I swallow. "You mean… slowly?"
He finally turns to me.
"No," he says gently. "I mean not at all."
I stare at him. I search his face for humor, for exaggeration, for any sign that this is a story meant to soften something else. I found none.
"That's not possible," I say, though my voice lacks conviction.
"I know."
"You're saying you're " I stop myself, the word is too sharp, too unreal. "You're saying time doesn't take you."
He nods once.
Shock doesn't come like lightning. It comes like cold water. It seeps in slowly, numbing before it hurts.
"How long?" I ask.
His mouth tightens. "Long enough to forget the number."
I stand abruptly, the chair scraping behind me. I need space. Air. Something solid to touch.
"This is cruel," I say, more to myself than to him. "If this is a joke "
"It isn't."
"You should have told me."
"I wanted to," he says. "Every time you smiled at me like you trusted me, I wanted to. Every time you asked another question about the past, I wanted to. But once you say something like this out loud, you can't take it back."
I turn to face him again. "You already took something from me. My choice."
Pain flashes across his face. "I know."
The silence stretches. I can hear the tick of the old clock above the door, each second suddenly loud.
"Does it ever end?" I ask quietly.
His brow furrows. "What's the end?"
"The waiting. The watching."
He hesitates. That's enough to answer.
I sink back into the chair. My hands are shaking now. I press them flat against the table.
"And Isolde?" I ask. "Was she like you?"
"No," he says immediately. "She was human."
"Then how "
"She loved me anyway."
The sorrow in his voice is unmistakable. It curls around the words, weighs them down.
"She knew what I was," he continues. "Eventually. I tried to hide it at first. I thought if I loved her quietly enough, time would overlook us."
I let out a breath that feels like it's been stuck in my lungs since the moment we met. "That's not how time works."
"No," he agrees. "It never is."
I look at him then, really look. At the way his shoulders slope inward, as if he's learned to make himself smaller. By the way his eyes carry something ancient and tired beneath their warmth.
"Did you love her?" I ask.
He doesn't hesitate. "Yes."
The honesty stings, though I know it shouldn't.
"And you let her die?"
His jaw tightens. "That's not what happened."
The room feels smaller suddenly. Closer. Like it's listening.
"What happened?" I ask.
He closes his eyes.
"When the truth became unavoidable," he says, "when she realized I would still be standing where I was while she turned to dust beneath the same sky, she began to change."
"How?"
"She started pulling away. Small things at first. Longer silences. Letters instead of visits."
My chest tightens. Letters. Always letters.
"She told me she was afraid," he says. "Not dying. Of staying."
I lean forward. "Staying with you?"
"Yes."
The word lands softly, but it carries weight.
"She didn't want to watch everyone she loved disappear," I murmur, remembering my own question weeks ago.
Alaric nods. "She said it would hollow her out. That loving me would cost her everything else."
"And you?" I ask.
"I begged her to stay," he admits. "I told her we'd find a way. That time could be tricked. That love could outlast it."
His voice breaks on the last word.
I reach for him without thinking. This time, he grips my hand like it's a lifeline.
"She kissed me goodbye," he says. "And then she made her choice."
I hold my breath.
"What choice?" I whisper.
He looks at me, eyes glassy but steady.
"He admits Isolde chose to leave."