The afternoon sky darkened with clouds as if reflecting the heavy thoughts pressing against Alexander's chest. From his corner office, he watched the rain begin to fall—light at first, then quickly intensifying into a steady downpour.
He used to like the rain.
But now it just reminded him of the day he buried Solana.
He turned away from the window and ran a hand through his thick hair, sighing. Across the room, Elira's reports lay untouched on his desk, her neatly arranged sketches placed beside them. She'd delivered them earlier that morning, her presence lingering like the softest perfume—just enough to unsettle him.
He hadn't said more than five words to her.
He was avoiding her again. Not because he was angry, but because he was confused.
Because something in her smile felt like home.
Because he could hear Solana's laugh in hers.
And because, for the first time in twenty-two years, he wanted to listen.
---
Downstairs in the marketing department, Elira sat at her desk, staring at the gray world outside the glass window. Her fingers tapped against her mug of warm chamomile tea, trying to calm her nerves. It had been nearly three weeks since she'd stopped talking about being his wife in her past life. She had kept her promise. She no longer tried to convince him. She simply… stayed.
And yet, something had shifted.
Alexander wasn't cold anymore—not entirely. He no longer scowled when their eyes met. He lingered when she passed him in the hallway. And twice—twice—he had actually said her name.
Elira.
Not "Miss Caelum."
Not "you."
Just… Elira.
It was progress.
She knew she couldn't force him to remember. Souls didn't always bring memories with them. But hearts remembered. And if she couldn't jog his memory, then she would do what she promised herself when she was reborn:
She would fall in love with him all over again. Even if he never knew who she was.
---
By late afternoon, the storm grew louder. Thunder rumbled low over the city, and the glass of the building shimmered with sheets of rain. Most of the staff was already packing up early. The system was down, and the streets were flooding.
Elira's desk phone rang.
"Hello, this is Elira Caelum," she answered politely.
"Elira." The voice made her sit up straight.
Alexander.
"Yes, sir?"
"Could you come up to my office?" he said after a pause. "I want to go over the new layout design for the autumn campaign."
"Of course. Right away."
She hung up, smoothing down her skirt, trying to still her pounding heart. It was just a review. Just a layout. She wasn't going to read into it.
But she wore lipstick today—she didn't even know why.
---
When she arrived at the 28th floor, the hallway was quiet. The executive floor was mostly empty now; only dim lights and the sound of rain remained.
She knocked.
"Come in," he called.
Alexander stood by the window again, arms crossed, his back to her. She stepped in quietly, clutching her folder.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
He turned. His dark eyes flickered to her face, then to the folder. "Yes. Thank you for coming."
He walked back to his desk and sat, motioning for her to do the same. She did, carefully opening the folder and laying out the mockups.
"These are strong," he said after a moment, running a finger along the edge of one photo. "Elegant. Simple. I like the symmetry."
"Thank you," she said softly.
She waited, expecting his usual sharp questions or changes. But he stayed silent, eyes drifting to her sketches—particularly one that featured a figure in a white dress under a cherry blossom tree.
"I recognize this." His voice dropped an octave.
Elira's breath caught. "You do?"
He nodded slowly. "It's similar to a painting that used to hang in my wife's study. A wedding scene under the trees. She loved cherry blossoms."
Elira smiled, her heart aching. "So do I."
He looked up, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"You really don't remember anything, do you?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He stiffened.
"Elira—"
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, looking down. "I promised I wouldn't bring it up. I just… I just wanted you to remember that feeling. That kind of love."
A long silence stretched between them. Rain tapped steadily against the window.
"You know," he said finally, "I used to think I'd never feel anything again. After she died, I shut everything off. I focused on raising the twins. On building the company. I didn't even let myself cry after the funeral. I just… functioned."
Elira swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "That's not what she would have wanted."
He looked at her again. There was something raw in his expression now—unguarded. Human.
"I know," he said. "But grief makes you selfish. You start to believe that pain is the only thing that connects you to the person you lost. That if you let go of it, you're letting go of them."
She nodded slowly. "And maybe… love is the only thing strong enough to replace that pain."
He studied her.
"You speak as if you knew her."
"I did."
There it was again. The truth, quiet and simple.
But this time, he didn't flinch. He didn't scold her or dismiss her.
He just looked at her—as if trying to see something just beyond the surface.
The storm outside roared.
---
Later, when she stood to leave, he didn't stop her. But as her hand touched the doorknob, his voice came quietly behind her.
"Elira."
She turned.
"I remember something," he said, voice low. "Solana… she used to sing when she was afraid. Just hum, really. Nothing loud. She thought no one noticed, but I always did."
Elira smiled.
"I still do that."
She walked out before her tears could fall.
---
That night, Alexander stood in the hallway outside the twins' old bedroom. The house was quiet now—too quiet. Aiden was living in a condo near the university where he taught business ethics. Aria was abroad on a research grant. The walls still echoed with their laughter, their arguments, their dreams.
He stood in front of the old family photo hung by the stairs. Solana in her white sundress, holding the twins as infants. Her smile radiant, her hair like silk in the sun.
He whispered her name.
But what haunted him wasn't the photo.
It was the voice of a 22-year-old girl who looked like her, moved like her, smiled like her.
And the way his heart reacted every time she said his name.
---
The next day, Elira arrived earlier than usual. She liked the quiet mornings, when the elevators were slow and the coffee machines still whirred softly. She liked walking past his office, just to feel that tug in her chest.
But today was different.
When she reached her desk, a small white envelope was waiting.
No name. No label. Just tucked under her keyboard.
Curious, she opened it.
Inside was a single card.
"Cherry blossoms are blooming. Meet me on the rooftop at noon."
No signature. But she didn't need one.
Because the handwriting was his.
---
🕛 Noon.
The rooftop was damp from the storm, the sky just beginning to clear. The city stretched around them in steel and silver, mist curling between the buildings like a dream.
Alexander stood near the edge, his coat unbuttoned, hair ruffled by the breeze.
He turned as she stepped into view.
"You came."
"You asked," she said softly.
A beat passed.
"I wanted to show you something," he said, leading her to the far side where the building's garden boxes stood.
In the corner, hidden from plain view, stood a young cherry blossom tree. Not yet in bloom—but strong, its branches reaching skyward.
"She planted one here when we were first married," he said. "It died after she passed. This one… I planted it two years ago. I don't know why. I just needed something to grow again."
Elira's eyes filled with tears.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
"It reminds me of her." He paused. "It reminds me of… you."
They stood in silence, the wind whispering between them.
"I don't know what to believe, Elira," he said finally. "But I do know one thing."
She looked up.
"I don't want to lose this feeling again. Not twice."
Her heart stopped.
"You mean…"
"I want to try," he said quietly. "Whatever this is. Whoever you are."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"I'm yours," she whispered.
And in that moment, Alexander stepped closer and gently brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping away the tear he once swore he'd never let fall again.
To be continued