Grace smiles brighter now.
"Really, it's like—I believe now that God led us all along. That time grew me up a lot. And I'm good. Really, all good."
She leans forward, her eyes glowing with curiosity.
"So… let's talk about your fashion! How did you get into the fashion industry?"
Julian laughs, grateful for the shift in mood—and grateful for her.
"All right," he says, leaning back slightly. "Well… I was always interested in fashion, ever since I was young." His voice lowers as he slips into memory.
He sees himself as a child, living with his parents during wartime—his mother always with her notepad, his father with his camera. Both reporters, documenting the chaos and progress of a world in conflict. They moved often, chasing stories from one border to another.
Even then, Julian remembers being fascinated by people's clothing—how style changed from place to place, how colors, fabrics, and silhouettes told unspoken stories of identity, survival, and pride. Even amidst war, people clung to fashion as a thread of dignity.
As he speaks, Grace listens quietly, her mind drifting.
She thinks of June.
In the dream, June always dressed sharply—classic coats, polished boots, vests that hugged his frame. Even when missions pulled him into the mud and danger, he cared about how he looked. Not out of vanity, but because his clothing always carried the quiet dignity of the time, the weight of an era.
His style had that same grace. Sophisticated. Intentional.
Just like Julian.
She smiles faintly, glancing at him now. It's strange—and wonderful—how past and present seem to echo one another. Like a hidden thread woven between lives.
"So you started off right as a designer?" Grace asks, her voice light and curious as she takes a hearty bite of her food.
Julian smiles and replies, "Yes, indeed."
His eyes linger on her—on the way she eats without pretense, like she's fully comfortable around him. There's something endearing about it. Something grounding. But as he looks at her, his smile begins to falter, and a hesitation flickers in his gaze.
He swallows.
"Grace… if—" he begins, but the words catch in his throat.
Grace looks up mid-chew, tilting her head.
"If what?"
Julian opens his mouth slightly, but nothing comes out. His fingers curl slightly under the table, clenching around the edge of his napkin.
If those dreams keep going… and you see it—see how you died… a hundred years ago…If you remember everything, the pain, the fear… the betrayal…I'm afraid it will break your heart in a way I can't protect you from.
The words press heavily against his chest, but he can't bring himself to say them aloud.
"No, nothing," he says, waving it off as casually as he can manage.
Grace watches him for a beat longer, clearly sensing that he's holding something back—but she lets it go. With a mischievous smile and a playful shrug, she leans back in her chair.
"Okay then," "Grace says with a shrug and a mischievous smile.
"Well, goodbye," Grace says with a small grin, her voice light but soft, like a breeze just before dusk.
They stand in the middle of the parking lot, the sun beginning to set behind distant buildings, casting long shadows between the cars. Their vehicles are parked on opposite ends, and now, it's time to part.
"Yes, goodbye," Julian echoes, offering the same faint grin. But something tugs at his chest.
He wishes he could drive her home. Sit beside her just a little longer. Maybe talk about something meaningless, maybe say nothing at all. Just be there. But Grace brought her own car today, and so he simply watches her, hands slipping into his pockets.
"All right," Grace says, giving a quick wave as she turns on her heel.
Just like that, she walks away—off toward the other side of the lot.
Julian doesn't move. He just watches.
Her white short-sleeved T-shirt hangs loosely on her frame, the sleeves brushing against her slender arms. The soft gray wide-leg pants sway with each step, hiding her legs almost entirely. There's something fragile about the way she walks—graceful, yes, but weary. As if each step carries more weight than she lets on.
He can feel it. Something beneath the surface. Something she's not saying.
She hadn't told him the full reason for leaving her Master's program, but Julian knows. He can sense it. There's a sadness in her, a heaviness in the way she holds herself—like someone fighting through something invisible and relentless.
She's exhausted, he thinks. And hurting.
And still—she smiles.
Suddenly, just as her figure begins to blur into the rows of cars, she stops. She turns back around.
Julian blinks.
"Thank you!" she calls out, her voice bright, ringing through the evening air.
His eyes soften. His breath catches for a second.
"Thank you."
Simple words. But they land differently. Like something sacred.
Behind that cheerful tone, he hears something else—an echo of what she doesn't say.
Your presence is like an angel to me, sent from God in the middle of all this pain. My family… we're falling apart. That fraud group took everything. My life's unraveling, and I've felt so pathetic. So alone. And then—you appeared.
But Grace swallows the rest. She simply smiles once more, turns around, and walks the rest of the way to her car without looking back.
Julian stays rooted where he is, eyes fixed on her fading silhouette.
Only when her car disappears from view does he turn around slowly.
"Thank you!"
Her words still echo in his ears.
They sounded cheerful. Effortlessly light.
But he heard it—the tremble beneath. Sincerity. The silent ache. And the gratitude so deep it made his chest ache.
He closes his eyes, breathes in the cool air of the evening, and places a hand over his heart.
"Grace," he whispers to the wind, "I won't leave you anymore."
Sunday evening drapes softly over the city, the warm golden lights of distant high-rises flickering against the deepening blue of the sky. Inside Julian's studio suite apartment—an ivory-toned sanctuary of minimalist elegance—the gentle sound of piano worship music fills the space, flowing from the speaker tucked beside a potted olive tree in the corner of the living area.
Julian hums along quietly as he stirs a pan of risotto, the scent of garlic and herbs dancing through the air. On another burner, pasta noodles twist and roll in bubbling water. The marble countertop gleams, spotless. Every corner of his apartment, from the sheer white curtains to the soft beige rugs, breathes intention. Clean. Calm. Thoughtful.
Just as he reaches for the tongs again, the doorbell rings.
He quickly places the pan and tongs down and wipes his hands on a linen towel. With a calm stride, he walks to the door and opens it.
Standing there is Eugene, grinning widely.
Julian's face immediately lights up. "Come in," he says warmly, stepping aside.
"Hey, June," Eugene greets, stepping inside with familiar ease. His eyes sweep across the room like they always do. "Every time I come here, I'm just amazed. You really have the most sophisticated interior style. It's like walking into a magazine. And it's so clean, too."
Julian laughs, motioning toward the cream-colored sofa.
"Haha, just take a rest. I'll finish up the cooking."
Eugene heads over and sinks into the plush cushions, letting out a relaxed sigh as he watches Julian return to the kitchen. There's something mesmerizing about Julian's quiet precision. He lifts the pasta pan and gently rotates the noodles with practiced finesse, his movements confident, almost artistic.
"Man," Eugene says, genuinely impressed, "now that I'm getting married, I feel like I should start learning how to cook like you. Look at that—you're like a chef or something."
Julian glances back and chuckles.
"Haha, I'm not that good. I just enjoy it. But yeah—cooking's definitely a good thing to know. Especially when someone's relying on you to feed them."
With a final check, he turns off the burners and plates the dishes. Two oil pasta bowls. Two portions of creamy mushroom risotto. A drizzle of basil oil, a sprinkle of black pepper—simple, but elegant.
Balancing the plates in both hands, he brings them over to the small dining table by the window. The city sparkles beyond the glass, a sea of lights pulsing quietly in the night.
"The food's ready," Julian announces.
"Wow," Eugene says, rising and making his way over. "It looks amazing."
Julian hands him a fork and knife, then takes the seat across from him, his back to the open kitchen and his gaze drawn slightly toward the city skyline.
"I hope it tastes all right," he says, a bit sheepishly. "Didn't taste-test it yet, so we'll see if I messed anything up."
Eugene picks up his fork, nodding with a grin.
"Well, it sure looks good."
Julian bows his head slightly.
"Let's pray."
They each offer a quiet moment of gratitude, the music still humming softly in the background like a gentle companion to their thoughts.
Then—first bite.
Eugene's eyes widen as he chews.
"Oh, wow. This is really good."
Julian smiles, finally trying his own bite. He nods as the flavors settle just right on his tongue.
"Haha," he says, content. "Glad it turned out the way I imagined it."
Eugene holds up his fork mid-air, eyes locking on Julian's with a quiet knowingness.
"You know you look different," he says slowly. "Somewhat jolly, and kind of steady, too. Like you've found some kind of balance."
Julian raises an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips.