The morning mist clung to the garden like a dream not yet ready to wake. Thin threads of light wove through the high branches, dappling the ground with a lazy golden warmth. Caelum stood still beneath the arbor, arms folded loosely behind his back as he watched Elowen kneel by a patch of forget-me-nots, her pale fingers brushing dew from their soft blue petals.
It had become a habit now, these secret meetings in the early light — before the manor stirred, before reality resumed its cruel shape. Here, between roots and silence, the world felt gentler.
"You always come to the same flowers," Caelum said softly, his breath forming pale ghosts in the air.
"They were the first to bloom when I arrived here," Elowen replied, not turning. "Even when the servants avoided me. Even when I frightened the gardeners by accident. These still grew."
She looked up then, and something in her expression snagged at Caelum's chest — a quiet strength wrapped in unspoken loneliness.
"I think they liked you," he said. "You're far more nurturing than anyone gives you credit for."
Her smile was small. Fragile. But it was real.
They wandered after that — past fountains and moss-wrapped statues, deep into the older part of the estate where the library wing lay cloaked in ivy. It had become another of their sanctuaries. Elowen claimed she liked the dust, the smell of old paper and secrets. Caelum suspected it had more to do with the silence — the kind only shared with someone who didn't demand answers.
Today, however, she paused just before entering.
"Wait here," she whispered, then disappeared inside.
He blinked. "Wait? Why—?"
Moments later, she reemerged, holding something carefully in her hands.
A ribbon.
No, not just any ribbon — a deep burgundy sash, its silk patterned with faint golden embroidery in the shape of climbing roses. She held it like a treasure, eyes hesitant.
"This…" She bit her lip, then pressed it into his hands. "It belonged to my mother. I wanted you to have something… from me. In case… you do leave soon."
Caelum's breath caught.
"Elowen…"
"I know you said it's still undecided," she went on quickly, cheeks pink, "but I just… I wanted you to remember this place. And me. If you go."
He stepped closer, clutching the ribbon with both hands, stunned by the weight of the gesture. "I'm not going anywhere. Not yet. And even if I did… this would make forgetting you impossible."
Her smile trembled, and for a moment, she looked as if she might cry — but instead, she stepped into him and gently tied the ribbon around his wrist. "Then promise me," she whispered, "no matter what happens… you won't disappear without saying goodbye."
Caelum covered her hands with his own. "I promise. But only if you promise not to give up on yourself. Or us."
Us. The word hovered like a prayer.
Behind them, the library doors creaked in the wind. Somewhere deeper in the manor, a bell rang once — calling time forward again.
As they stepped inside the library, the world resumed its rhythm, but neither of them let go of the other's hand.
The library welcomed them like an old friend — quiet, vast, and warm with the scent of parchment and pinewood. Caelum led Elowen through its maze of shelves, their fingers still loosely entwined. Neither said much, but the silence was filled with something tender, like music that didn't need words.
They ended up in their usual corner: a cushioned alcove tucked beneath a wide stained-glass window, the afternoon light painting the books and floor in fractured hues of crimson and violet.
Caelum pulled a book down at random — a collection of fairy tales — and opened it on his lap. Elowen curled beside him, cheek resting on his shoulder, and he began to read aloud in a soft, steady voice.
"…And the prince, after a thousand trials and a hundred heartaches, finally stood before the sleeping girl in the tower. But when he leaned down to kiss her awake, she opened her eyes before he could. She had been waiting all along."
Elowen's breath caught quietly.
"That's not how it usually ends," she murmured.
"I like this version better," Caelum replied. "She didn't need saving. Just someone who waited long enough to understand her."
He looked down at her, and she looked up at him — and in that moment, the ribbon around his wrist warmed faintly, as if echoing the heartbeat between them.
Unseen to either of them, tucked deep within Caelum's coat pocket, the enchanted notebook stirred. Faint golden script shimmered across one page:
[Emotional link established.][Anchor formation: 67% complete.][Destiny Divergence: Marginal. Monitoring…]
The words glowed for barely a breath before fading. As if deciding it was not yet time.
Back in the alcove, Elowen reached for Caelum's hand again, this time intertwining their fingers deliberately.
"Do you think," she said softly, "that stories like these can exist outside of books?"
His smile was quiet but sure. "I think we're writing one."
A beat of silence.
Then, suddenly: a thud echoed from somewhere deeper in the library.
Elowen sat upright. "What was that?"
Caelum stood, gently helping her up. "Maybe a book fell. I'll check it out."
They moved together through the aisles, but when they reached the next row, they found nothing out of place.
Nothing… except a single open volume lying on a pedestal — one neither of them remembered seeing before.
It was old. Bound in cracked red leather, no title on the spine. But its open page was what made Elowen's breath still.
It held a painted image. A girl in a garden of thorns. Her eyes sad, her hands bound by glowing ribbon — identical to the one Caelum now wore on his wrist.
Caelum reached toward it — and the page turned itself.
The next image was hazier. Shadows around a boy, his face half-lit, his back toward the girl.
And beneath it, in curling black ink: "When the bond deepens, so too does the risk."
Elowen's hand trembled. Caelum's brow furrowed.
A long silence passed before he quietly closed the book and stepped back.
"Let's go back," he said. "It's getting late."
As they left the library, the book remained behind, quiet once more — but watching.
That night, Elowen couldn't sleep.
She stepped out onto her balcony, drawn by the whisper of the wind and the promise of starlight. The sky stretched wide and unclouded, a sea of glittering lights.
To her surprise, Caelum was already there.
He looked up from where he sat on the balcony railing, legs dangling over the edge, cloak wrapped around his shoulders like a makeshift blanket. He smiled when he saw her.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked.
She shook her head and padded toward him barefoot, hair loose, her expression open in a way it rarely was.
"Mind if I join you?"
"Always."
She leaned beside him, back to the railing, and for a long moment, neither spoke. The stars were enough.
Then she whispered, "Sometimes I wonder if moments like this are real. If I'm real. Or just… someone pretending to be the girl from a storybook."
Caelum turned to face her more fully, and reached out — slowly — to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You're real, Elowen," he said. "More real than anyone I've ever met."
Her breath hitched.
"And if this is a story…" He paused. "Then I hope I'm lucky enough to stay in it with you."
She looked at him then, really looked — and whatever wall she'd built around herself began to melt, brick by cautious brick. Slowly, she leaned forward until her head rested against his shoulder once more.
"You already are," she whispered.
Above them, a shooting star streaked silently across the sky.
And just beneath Caelum's sleeve, the ribbon around his wrist pulsed once with a warm, golden glow.