Rowan's silence was louder than a scream.
He stood by the window, his back turned to her, as Eveline held the letter between her fingers — heavy, sealed, and warm, as if it still remembered being touched by fire.
"You knew this was here," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"You were going to burn it."
"Yes."
She stepped closer, her voice trembling.
"Why?"
He turned slowly, eyes tired — as though haunted by more than memory.
"Because it's the one truth that might take you away from me."
Eveline sat in the chair beneath the study lamp. The room held its breath as she broke the seal.
The letter inside was delicate — its ink fading, but legible. Her name was written in another hand. A hand she remembered from dreams. From a lifetime she had no words for yet.
Eveline,
If you are reading this, then time has not yet won. But love — love may still lose.
We were never meant to find each other again. But we always do.
And every time we try to change the ending, someone else pays the price.
If you remember, you will understand why I did what I did.
If you forget, you will be safe.
But I would rather be damned than let you go again.
Forgive me, even if you can't.
— R.
She didn't speak for a long time. When she did, it was barely more than a breath.
"Rowan… how many lives have we lived?"
He looked at her, and for a moment, the answer was written all over his face — grief, wonder, longing, surrender.
"Enough to make every goodbye feel like the first time."
That night, Eveline stood in front of the cracked mirror once more.
She stared at her reflection. Only this time, the other Eveline wasn't there.
Instead, a rose burned behind the glass.
It flickered like memory.
And then — a voice not her own whispered:
"You weren't the only one who loved him."
Downstairs, the candle in the study blew out on its own.
Rowan didn't sleep.
Neither did the house.