*Maison du Rêve* was wrapped in its usual morning tranquility. The scent of toasted bread and black coffee from the neighboring café occasionally drifted in with the breeze, rustling the small wind chime by the entrance.
Celeste had just opened the shop. Her hair was pinned up simply, her cream dress swaying lightly as she moved through the aisles, adjusting slightly displaced books.
The day seemed ordinary.
Until the doorbell chimed.
A man entered. His steps were quiet, his posture upright but unassuming. He wore a long gray coat, a thin scarf draped around his neck, and round glasses that framed his handsome face—more like a literature professor than a harbinger of chaos.
Celeste's gaze locked onto him.
For a moment… the world slowed.
The man stood by the door, then inclined his head slightly in greeting. His smile was faint—polite, yet something lingered behind his eyes… as if holding back something profound.
"Good morning," he said, his voice calm and smooth. "Is this place… owned by Celeste Carter Vaughn?"
Celeste went still. She set down the book in her hands and stepped forward.
"Yes. I'm Celeste."
The man nodded. "Finally, we meet again, Celeste."
The word *"again"* struck the air like a slap.
Celeste narrowed her eyes, her expression searching. "I'm sorry… do we know each other?"
The man's smile remained faint. "Perhaps not… now. But once, we were very close."
Celeste swallowed. Her pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the instinct that some part of her was being summoned awake.
"I'm Salvius," the man continued, stepping closer without haste. "Salvius Kierston."
The name… felt foreign yet familiar. Like a melody from an unfinished dream.
Celeste studied him intently. "Forgive me… I lost parts of my memory. Years ago."
Salvius nodded slowly, as if already aware. "I heard about that. And I've… been looking for you for a long time."
"Why?" Celeste's voice was barely above a whisper.
Salvius unbuttoned his coat, setting his small bag on the reading chair by the window before retrieving a worn journal. He held it out to Celeste.
Its cover was tattered, but Celeste's name was inscribed on the first page—in her own handwriting.
*"For Salvius, my companion through the unending storm."*
"A diary?" Celeste breathed.
Salvius nodded. "You wrote it when we lived in a small house by the northern woods. You'd run away from home, and I… took you in. We shared rainy seasons, cold nights, and a small fireplace for two months."
Celeste took the journal with trembling hands. Some phrases within it felt like whispers… something that had once lived inside her but had been buried under time's dust.
"I don't remember…"
"You don't have to force it," Salvius said gently. "I just wanted to see you again. To know you're alright."
Celeste stared at him. There was an extraordinary calm in Salvius' gaze. No urgency. No demands. Just… the presence of someone who knew how to wait in silence.
"How did you know I was here?" Celeste finally asked.
Salvius glanced out the window before answering softly, "Someone informed me… that you'd become part of the Vaughn family. And that this shop was yours."
"Someone?"
"There are many who want you to remember, Celeste. But not all of them wish you happiness."
Celeste clutched the journal tightly.
The doorbell chimed again.
Alistair stepped in—his entire body locking the moment his eyes landed on the bespectacled man standing near his wife.
"Celeste?" Alistair's voice was tense.
Celeste turned. "Alistair… this is Salvius. He's…"
"An old friend," Salvius finished, meeting Alistair's gaze steadily. "And apparently, your husband now."
Alistair's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"
Salvius didn't answer directly. Instead, he raised his hands slightly and said, "I only came to revisit an unfinished season. But rest assured… I'm not here to reclaim anything."
Celeste stood between the two men—one her present, her home, her love. The other… a past slowly resurfacing, stirring curiosity.
And for some reason… her stomach twisted. Not from fear. But from knowing—the world that had felt so perfect… might have just begun its test.
---
Tension hung thick in the air as the three stood in the quiet warmth of the bookshop.
Alistair studied Salvius Kierston with a piercing gaze, as if reading hidden intentions behind those glasses. Meanwhile, Celeste remained between them, clutching the worn journal that seemed to whisper echoes of an unresolved past.
Salvius stepped slowly toward the large window, his silhouette backlit by the afternoon light. His voice was low, calm, yet it cut straight to the heart.
"I didn't come to reopen wounds, Alistair. Or to demand anything from Celeste. I just wanted to return this… in person."
He gestured to the journal. Celeste still held it tightly, her fingers pressing into the cover as if it were part of her skin.
"You know, time can't be rewound," Salvius continued. "But sometimes, promises are left behind. Not to be reclaimed… just to be given a proper farewell."
Celeste lowered her head. The words resonated—but distantly, from beneath layers of fogged memory.
Alistair took a step forward. "Farewell? You show up after years, just as she finds peace, and talk about farewells?"
Salvius turned, meeting Alistair's gaze evenly. "You love her, don't you?"
Alistair didn't hesitate. His eyes remained fixed on Celeste. "More than my own life."
Salvius gave a small nod. "Then… you'll understand that someone who once loved—silently—doesn't always want to take back. Sometimes, they just need to know… she's happy. That's all."
The words made Celeste straighten. She stepped toward Salvius, stopping a few feet away.
"If I really wrote this… then you're part of the life I lost."
Salvius bowed his head briefly. "You once said… if you ever forgot, the days we shared would still live in these pages."
"And now… you're giving them back to me."
Salvius smiled faintly. "They were never mine to keep."
Alistair didn't move. But something in his eyes softened—not because he fully trusted the man, but because Salvius… clearly hadn't come armed with weapons.
Celeste opened the journal slowly, flipping through a few pages.
On one, she read her own handwriting:
*"Maybe the world is chaos, but there's one place that feels safe: beside the bespectacled man who makes unsweetened tea but speaks the sweetest words."*
Celeste inhaled sharply. Then closed the book.
"I'll read it. Slowly. If I can remember… I will," she said, her voice trembling slightly.
Salvius nodded, then retrieved his coat and bag.
"I'll be at the inn down the street. If you ever want to talk more… I won't go far."
He bowed politely to Alistair. "Thank you… for keeping her safe."
And to Celeste, his gaze lingered—filled with respect, and sincerity. "Goodbye… for now."
Then he walked out.
When the door closed again, Celeste remained still. Alistair approached, touching her shoulder.
"Are you alright?"
Celeste turned slowly, meeting his eyes.
"I don't know… if I'm afraid of my own memories. But I do know I'm grateful that when I opened my eyes… you were the first person I saw."
Alistair brushed her cheek. "And I'll always be that person, no matter how far your past chases you."
They stood in silence. But it wasn't fear. It was strength. Celeste knew the storm from her past wasn't truly over. But for the first time… she was ready to face it, hand in hand with the man who now held hers so tightly.