The days following Elara's hiring were a torment of exquisite anticipation and profound anxiety for Lysander. He found himself behaving like a boy, not a captain of industry. He would rearrange his schedule to be present at the printing house when he knew she was due to deliver her work, inventing flimsy pretexts about checking on press calibrations or paper quality. He was the master of this domain, yet he felt like a trespasser in her presence.
She, on the other hand, was the picture of professional decorum. She would arrive precisely on time, her portfolio clutched firmly, her greetings polite but distant. She presented her illustrations, each one more masterful than the last, with a clear, concise explanation of her artistic choices. She was the perfect employee. And it was driving him mad.
He had expected a reunion. He had expected the easy familiarity of their fence-line conversations to seamlessly translate into their new dynamic. He had forgotten the crucial variable: her agency. In his memory, she was his Elara. In reality, she was Miss Vance, an ambitious, talented young woman navigating a man's world, and she was wisely cautious of her eccentric, powerful, and unsettlingly intense employer.
His attempts to bridge the gap were clumsy, freighted with the weight of his hidden knowledge.
"This rendering of the water pump is exceptional," he said one afternoon, standing too close to her as she unrolled a sketch on a large table. He could smell the lavender in her hair. "It reminds me of a conversation we… that is, it brings to mind the importance of pressure differentials."
She shifted slightly away, creating a respectful distance. "Thank you, Mr. Brentwood. I based it on the principles laid out in the text you provided. The author's grasp of hydraulics is quite advanced for our time."
Our time. The words were a knife twist. He knew the author was a forgotten genius whose work wouldn't be appreciated for another fifty years. He had simply "rediscovered" it.
"Indeed," he murmured, retreating. "The author was ahead of his time."
Another day, he tried a more personal approach. "I recall you had a fondness for the mechanics of timepieces. Your father is a watchmaker, is he not?"
She looked up from her work, a guarded expression in her eyes. "He is. Though I am surprised you know that, Mr. Brentwood. I don't believe I mentioned it."
He had stumbled. "I… make it a point to know the backgrounds of those I employ," he recovered, the lie tasting bitter. "It ensures a good fit."
"I see," she said, and the two words were a fortress wall being raised. She returned to her drawing, effectively ending the conversation.
He was failing. He was trying to force a connection that needed to grow organically. He was reading from a script of a past life, while she was improvising in the present. His confidence, which could sway markets and intimidate rivals, evaporated in her presence. He was a ghost trying to grasp a living hand.
The breaking point came during a discussion about the illustrations for a volume on botany. Elara had proposed a series of drawings that not only depicted the plants but also showed their cellular structure, a revolutionary concept.
"It is speculative, I know," she said, her passion for the idea overcoming her professional reserve. "But if we could show the world that there is a universe of order within the seemingly chaotic forms of nature, it would change everything! It is the same principle as the gears within a clock."
He was captivated. This was the Elara he knew. The visionary. The one who saw the hidden connections. In his enthusiasm, he overstepped.
"It's brilliant, Elara," he said, her name slipping out unbidden, spoken with the familiar tenderness of a husband of thirty years.
The room froze.
She slowly set down her pencil. The sound was like a gunshot in the sudden silence. She looked at him, not with anger, but with a deep, unnerving confusion.
"Mr. Brentwood," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "That is… familiar."
"My apologies, Miss Vance," he said quickly, his face flushing. "A moment of… undue familiarity."
"It is more than that," she countered, her gaze sharpening. "It is part of a pattern. You look at me as if you are searching for someone else. You speak to me as if we are resuming a conversation I don't remember starting. Who do you think I am?"
This was it. The moment of truth, arrived not in a planned confession, but in a moment of his own unguarded weakness. He could not tell her the truth. Not here. Not now. But he could not continue with this charade either.
"I think," he said, choosing his words with the care of a man walking a tightrope over an abyss, "that you are the most singular mind I have ever encountered. And I confess, in my… enthusiasm for our collaboration, I have perhaps imagined a familiarity that does not yet exist. For that, I am truly sorry. It was unprofessional and disrespectful."
It was a retreat, but an honest one. He was acknowledging her personhood, not just her talent.
She studied him for a long moment, the confusion in her eyes slowly giving way to a flicker of something else, curiosity, perhaps, or a dawning understanding.
"The work is what matters, Mr. Brentwood," she said finally, her tone softer. "Let us focus on that."
It was a reprieve, not an absolution. But it was a start. He had been trying to win back a wife. He needed to win the trust of a stranger. As she gathered her things to leave, she paused.
"The familiarity…" she said, not looking at him. "It is not entirely unpleasant. It is just… confusing."
And with that, she was gone.
Lysander sank into his chair, his heart pounding. He had been trying to control the narrative, to force the story of his past life onto the present. But Elara, as always, was her own author. She had rejected the role he had written for her and was demanding to write her own. For the first time since this loop began, Lysander felt a spark of genuine hope. He wasn't replaying a memory. He was building something new. And it was terrifying, and it was fragile, and it was the most real thing he had felt in decades. The unscripted heart, he realized, was the only one worth winning.