Marcel 1986
I knowthat letter sits inside Grace’s bag—just feet away, close enough to reach. If I had a little more nerve, I’d rise from this chair, dig it out, and devour every word. But I stay rooted, the heavy beat of my pulse steady in my ears.
Eli glances over, and I lean toward him, my voice low as I ask him a favor. His attention never wavers from Grace, calm and collected as ever.
“Grace,” he says with easy charm, “I need to check something out in the stables. Won’t take more than five minutes.”
She smiles, unsuspecting. “No worries at all.”
He turns to Isaac. “Think you can keep Ms. Grace company?”
Isaac’s cheeks tint with color as his gaze drops to the rim of his mug as if it holds something worth looking for. Eli chuckles softly and slips out the back door, leaving behind a shift in the room’s rhythm.
Isaac starts with the basics—asking what she does, where she’s from. Grace answers with warmth, her voice growing smoother, her laughter easier. Whatever stiffness that had lingered between them begins to fade.
But at the far end of the table, Clara sits apart from us. Not just in distance, but in every other way. Her body folded in onitself, a fortress of stillness. The ache clings to her like fog—I can sense the fear, the sorrow, the quiet unrest.
I fix my gaze on her, willing her to meet my eyes. I need that connection. Hell, I crave it. More than that, I want to hear her say my name again, just once, the way she used to.
And then, it hits me. That summer comes rushing back, bright and endless. Our talks that stretched for hours, stories whispered. Days spent shoulder to shoulder, reading in the sunroom of her uncle’s home, letting silence say what we weren’t ready to. And that night, when the world seemed to pause just for us. Her lips on mine, her breath at my throat, the kind of closeness that sears itself into your memory.
But what haunts me the most is her voice. The way she used to say my name was soft, so damn sweet. Like she knew she could undo me with just a breath.
And then there was the way she saidCowboy.
It wasn’t casual. The first time she whispered it, we were at the Founder's Dance. Music spilling out into the evening, stars overhead, her eyes dancing. That single word, spoken with a mix of mischief and promise, had me fighting every instinct to stay composed. I nearly came undone right there.
I shift in my seat, trying to calm the storm inside me. But it’s impossible. Everything about Clara pulls me toward her.
Her eyes never lift. She traces the tabletop with her fingertips like she’s sketching her thoughts into the wood. But I feel her. I think I always have. It’s like there’s a line tethering us together, stretched tight between past and present.
The conversation between Grace and Isaac floats around us, light and pleasant, but I can’t latch onto a word of it. My focus stays on Clara—the curve of her shoulder, the soft fall of her hair, the way her dress clings to her body I once called mine. She looks like a dream I barely survived waking from.
I stand, careful and quiet, and make my way to the counter. I don’t need more coffee. I just need to be near her. To feel something real between us again, even if it hurts.
She doesn’t lift her head, but I notice the way her fingers still when I pass beside her. Like my nearness tugs at something she buried long ago.
I pour the coffee slowly, steady hands betraying a racing heart. Then I lean against the counter, just behind her, and speak softly.
“I missed you, Firefly.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here, Marcel. I swear—” she whispers, her voice fraying at the edges, brittle with restraint.
I step closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the air between us carries the weight of what I can no longer keep hidden.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Clara,” I admit, my voice breaking into something raw. “But I couldn’t sit there and let you believe I forgot. I remember it all. Every moment we had. The way you looked at me. The way your kiss felt like a vow. Every time you called me yours.”
Her eyes fall shut, lashes trembling, as though the words strike too deep to bear. Maybe they do. Maybe they are the very ones she has spent years swallowing down, refusing to speak of.
Her eyes lift to mine, and the sight breaks me. There is love still there. Quiet, wounded, buried beneath years of silence, but unmistakably alive.
“I didn’t forget either,” she breathes, barely more than a thread of sound. “Not for a single second.”
And in that instant, the years crumble. Time is forgotten. The kitchen around us fades into nothing—Grace’s laughter, Isaac’s quiet replies—all of it receding until there is only her, only me, and the love we let go of so many years ago.
Fate
Clara 1923
