Aveline stood in front of her mirror, brushing her hair with slow, distracted strokes.
Outside, the sun peeked shyly through pale clouds, casting a soft golden hue across her bedroom floor. It was the first clear morning in days. The kind of morning that felt like a second chance.
Today, Lucien would have his MRI.
But last night—last night had been a turning point.
They had spoken for hours. Not just about time or illness or fate, but about the small things: the band they used to love, the way he still always forgot to buy toothpaste, the place she used to sneak off to when the world became too loud.
And when he said, "I want to believe in us," it wasn't desperate. It was honest.
Hopeful.
A first step back.
She looked down at her dresser.
The pocket watch sat quietly beside a small porcelain dish of earrings.
It no longer glowed.
It no longer ticked.
Almost as if—for now—time was at peace.
At the Café Where It All Began
Lucien was already waiting at the little corner café, leaning against the brick wall, hands in his coat pockets. The chill in the air gave his cheeks a slight flush.
When he saw her approach, he straightened and smiled.
It was the kind of smile she hadn't seen in years.
Real. Unburdened. Like the man he was before the shadows came.
"You're early," she teased.
"I was afraid you'd change your mind."
"I never would've come back if I wanted to run."
He looked at her for a long moment, and then, with a boyish shrug, said, "I ordered you a cinnamon latte. And a croissant."
Her heart softened. "You remembered."
"I remember everything about you."
They sat by the window, sunlight washing over the table, turning his dark hair gold at the edges.
"After the scan," he said, "I want to spend the whole day with you."
"Doing what?"
"Doesn't matter." He reached for her hand across the table. "Just… anything. Nothing. Everything."
His fingers closed gently over hers.
For a moment, the world outside the window disappeared.
Later That Afternoon – Under the Olive Tree
They ended up at the small garden behind the old university chapel. The tree was still there—twisting upward in proud silence, its roots curled like fingers around memories buried too deep to name.
"This tree saw our first kiss," Aveline said, leaning her head on his shoulder.
Lucien chuckled. "And heard our first argument. I think I called you stubborn."
"You did. I called you self-righteous."
"I was."
"You still are."
He laughed, then went quiet.
"I keep thinking," he said softly, "if this is real—if you truly came back to change things… then everything is already different. My diagnosis. Jules showing up early. You finding me again."
She nodded. "It means the timeline's bending. But we're bending it together."
He turned to look at her, eyes searching hers.
"Would you do it again?" he asked. "If you had to go back… knowing the pain, the weight of it all—would you still wish to come back?"
She didn't hesitate.
"I'd come back for you every time. Even if it broke me. Even if you didn't believe me. Even if I failed."
His eyes shimmered.
"Why?"
"Because I loved you once," she whispered. "And now I get to love you twice."
Lucien leaned in.
And this time, there was no fear, no hesitation.
Their lips met under the twisting olive branches—slow, familiar, but aching with the newness of rediscovery. Like opening an old book and finding a different ending.
The kind they never got to write the first time.
That Evening – Jules
Elsewhere, Jules stood in the shadow of the café window.
He had seen them leave.
He had seen them kiss.
And something in him tightened.
He didn't remember loving her yet.
Not fully.
But there was… a pull. A magnetic ache. A knowing, born not of the present, but of some other version of himself—one where she had turned to him, one where Lucien had died, and he had picked up the pieces.
But this time?
He was too early.
Or maybe, fate was playing a different hand.
As he turned from the window, his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One word message:
"Do you remember the lake?"
His breath caught.
Because he did.
But he shouldn't have.
The past—his past—was bleeding through.