Clara 1923
The sheets are tangledaround us, warm with the scent of sweat and something new, something sacred. Marcel’s arms are locked around me as though he’ll never let me go. My cheek rests against his chest, where his heartbeat thunders steady, anchoring me in this impossible moment.
For the first time in my life, I feel whole. Changed. Wanted.
“I love you, Clara,” he murmurs into my hair, voice low and trembling. “And now—” his chest rises on a shaky breath, “now it feels like I’ll never breathe right again without you.”
Tears slip silently from my eyes, soaking into his skin. I tilt my face up, tracing his jaw with my fingertips, memorizing every line. “I love you too, Marcel. I don’t think there will ever be a day when I won’t think about you. A day when I won’t want to be right here in your arms.”
His lips crash to mine, desperate and soft all at once, tasting of salt and sorrow. When he pulls back, his brow presses to mine, eyes closed. “Tell me you’ll always remember this. That you’ll rememberme.”
“I’ll remember you until my last breath. I promise you. God, I don’t want this night to end,” I whisper, the words breaking freebefore I can catch them. “I don’t want us to leave this room. I don’t want to leave you.”
His hold tightens. His breath shudders out as he places his palm on my chest, above my heart. “Keep me here, and know I’m with you. And I will always wait for the day I see you again.”
My tears fall as Marcel’s arms are wrapped tight around me, his body still warm where we touch. My cheek rests on his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart, and I swear if I close my eyes, I believe we belong to each other for always.
But he shifts, breath shuddering, and I know the moment is slipping.
“I don’t want to leave so soon,” he whispers, his lips brushing my hair. His voice is frayed, raw. “But if I stay, Clara, they’ll notice. Someone will notice.”
The truth strikes hard, splintering the fragile bubble we’ve built around ourselves. The outside world creeps back in—the ring on the nightstand, the car that will carry me away, the weight of promises.
I clutch at him, desperate. “Don’t go. Not yet. Just…a little longer.”
His hand cups the back of my head, fingers buried in my hair. “Firefly, I’d give my life to stay in this bed with you until the world ends. But if I’m found here, it won’t be just your name they ruin. They’ll ruin mine, too. And then what good am I to you?”
My tears spill, hot and helpless. “I love you.”
He tilts my face up, pressing his lips to mine with a fierceness that feels like goodbye already—hungry, aching, desperate. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breath uneven. Then, with a quiet exhale, he breaks away, reaching for his pants and pulls something from the pocket.
It’s small, brass, worn smooth by use. A compass.
He takes my hand and places it in my palm, curling my fingers around it. “If you ever need to run—if you ever want tocome back to me—just follow this north. I’ll be waiting, Clara. Whether it’s next month or fifty years from now, I’ll still be here.”
The gesture, his words sink into my skin. I clutch it to my chest like it’s a lifeline. My voice shakes. “You’d really wait for me?”
His eyes glisten in the dim light, steady and sure. “I already am.”
My heart cracks open. I lean forward, kissing him through my tears, whispering the only promise I can give. “Then I’ll carry you with me, always. And if I can, Marcel—if I ever can—I’ll find my way back to you.”
We hold each other for one last breath, one last heartbeat. Then he eases away, dressing in silence broken only by the soft rustle of fabric and the ache in my chest. At the door, he pauses, looking back at me as though memorizing every detail—my hair tangled, my cheeks streaked with tears, the sheets wrapped around me like armor I don’t want.
“Goodnight, Firefly,” he says, voice trembling. “I’ll see you soon.”
But when the door clicks shut behind him, my body shakes with heavy tears and I know the truth: every step he takes away from this room holds a piece of me leaving with him.
My trunk is already strappedto the back of the car when I step onto the porch, my gloved hands clasped tightly together. The morning air smells of hydrangeas and dew, of everything I’ve come to love and everything I have to leave behind. Uncle Julian’s voice is brisk as he thanks Briggs for his service, whileAunt Isadora fusses with the last-minute reminders I’ll never remember.
I walk between them, head held high like I’ve been trained, but inside I feel like a child who has been cruelly punished.
Then Irene’s motorcar comes rattling up the drive, cream paint flashing in the sun. She climbs out before the wheels even stop turning, calling my name as she hurries across the yard. Her embrace is fierce, pulling me close, her cheek warm against mine.
“Write me,” she whispers, her voice tight with emotion. “And don’t you dare forget what we talked about.”
I nod, choking on my own tears. “I won’t forget. I swear.”
But as I pull back, I see him.
