The air still held the faint perfume of incense that Alessia had burned the night before—now lingering only in memory. Sitting by the window, wrapped in a dense silence, her thoughts drifted like ghosts through the corners of the room.
She hadn't slept—couldn't. She hadn't even tried.
Since the vision—those bodies abandoned in the alleys, marked with the burning insignia of the Volkov clan—something inside her had cracked.
"They won't stop. They're feeding without rules. If no one intervenes, terrible things will happen," she thought.
And amid those visions, Liam appeared—an island in a restless sea.
The mere thought of him burned beneath her skin like guilt turned into warmth.
Since the shadow of the inevitable had brushed her life with cold fingers, rest had become an unattainable privilege.
"Maybe I should leave him. Maybe this story must die before it begins. Maybe there's still time not to drag him into my damnation," she thought, her fingers tracing absent notes on the old piano that adorned the quietest corner of her home.
She didn't play—just brushed the silent keys, as though even music feared breaking the fragile stillness she wore as armor. The chill of the ivory gave her a false sense of peace—brief, hollow, as fragile as the will that still held her together.
Then, the doorbell rang.
The sound pierced through the quiet, echoing like something that came from inside her. It wasn't just a call—it was a crack in her isolation, a reminder that the world outside kept moving, with or without her.
Alessia blinked, as if awakening from a deep trance.
She rose slowly and crossed the room barefoot, feeling the cold floor beneath her soles. When she opened the door, her breath caught, as if her body had recognized what her mind had not yet understood.
Liam was there.
Smiling.
Vulnerable.
Beautifully human.
His scent—a mix of wood and soap—reached her like a whisper of something lost and yearned for.
Alessia felt a wave of warmth surround her, the living heat radiating from him a contrast so sharp to her own coldness that she longed, for a heartbeat, to melt into it.
Her eyes wandered over him with surprise and tenderness—seeing not just the man who drew her in, but the promise of a life she had never allowed herself to imagine.
He was holding a small stuffed wolf with a red ribbon tied around its neck, a bottle of wine under his arm, and a neatly folded letter.
His clothes were simple—gray coat, jeans, a hand-knitted scarf—but his eyes held that rare kind of light that disarms without asking permission, like sunlight breaking through fog.
"It's nothing extraordinary," he said, extending the gift without crossing the threshold, "but I thought of you when I saw it."
Alessia looked at him without speaking.
The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was thick, full.
She took the stuffed wolf in both hands, the softness of its fur contrasting with the coolness of her fingers.
Then she carefully unfolded the letter, as if each crease held a held-back sigh, and read it in silence.
"For you—the woman who I don't know how came into my life… but from whom I never want to leave."
The words struck her with the gentleness of a contained storm.
For an instant, the world vanished; there was only the whisper of those words and his presence before her.
Her body didn't move, but inside her chest, something was beating—fast, urgent, alive.
"How can someone so simple touch what no one has moved in centuries? How can his tenderness bend what neither war nor power ever could?"
Liam took a slow step back, mistaking her silence for refusal.
There was no reproach in his gesture—only honesty, and a trace of sadness that looked ready to turn away.
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he said softly. "I just wanted you to know… that I think about you."
Alessia lifted her gaze.
Her lips didn't move right away, but her hand—trembling slightly—reached for the bottle of wine.
Their fingers brushed.
And then, without intending to, her gift awoke.
A shiver ran through her spine like a silent lightning strike.
The touch of his skin shook her to the core, a dizzying wave clouding her sight for an instant. Her senses sharpened; time seemed to stretch.
The world dimmed into layers, her perception sliding between what is and what will be.
The vision struck clear and vivid—fluid, luminous, alive.
Liam was running among blooming apple trees, laughing freely in a way she had never seen. The garden was wide, framed by low fences, alive with wildflowers and sunlight.
Beside him, a little girl with bright eyes chased after him, giggling.
"Daddy!"
He turned, lifted her in his arms, spinning her around in a whirl of joy.
Alessia could feel the sunlight, smell the sweetness of the apples heavy on the branches—it was so real it hurt.
Then the vision shifted—she saw through Liam's eyes.
And before him stood her.
Older.
Calmer.
Smiling with a peace born from years of hard-won light.
She wore a pale dress, her hair loosely tied, her eyes free of guilt and shadow—only light.
The girl ran toward her with open arms.
"Mommy!"
The emotional impact shattered her composure. The vision dissolved into the echo of childish laughter, reverberating inside her like a wound that bled warmth instead of pain.
Alessia staggered back a step, trembling, clutching the letter to her chest.
Her breath quivered; her eyes fluttered shut.
Liam watched her, confused but patient—the invisible bond between them speaking louder than words.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.
"Come in… please."
He entered quietly, without a word, without even shifting the air.
She closed the door gently, as if sealing a pact with that single motion.
Without another word, she poured two glasses of the wine he'd brought.
They sat on the couch, side by side.
There was no kiss. No rushed touch.
Only two presences sharing the same space—two broken souls finding shelter in one another's silence.
The small wolf rested between them like an unspoken symbol of tenderness.
Liam reached for her hand without asking.
Alessia didn't pull away.
"How long has it been since I allowed something so simple… so human," she thought, feeling how that gentle touch peeled away invisible layers she had built for centuries.
"I don't know if this is love or madness, but for the first time—I don't want to run."
For the first time, she let the warmth of another human being linger on her cold skin, like a sunrise that had arrived uninvited.
"I saw the impossible. And for the first time… I wanted it. That terrifies me—because real desire always hurts. But it also gives me hope. For the first time in centuries, I felt I belonged to something that didn't need to be hidden."
Outside, night began to fall.
And within that small apartment, a new kind of silence took root—not of loneliness, but of hope.