The next evening, Grace and her mom stroll through the snow-covered school campus.
Snowflakes drift down lazily from the gray sky, soft and weightless, blanketing the paths and rooftops in pristine white.
"Wow… so much snow," Monica murmurs, her breath puffing into the cold air as she steps carefully across the slick pavement.
Streetlights glow warmly here and there, casting golden circles on the pure white ground. The campus feels hushed, almost sacred, with only the crunch of their boots breaking the silence.
Grace walks a few steps ahead, her eyes sweeping curiously over every building and tree, as if the campus itself is a strange painting she's seeing for the first time.
"This is the school you've been going to. Does it look familiar?" Monica asks gently, watching her daughter's face for even a flicker of recognition.
Grace shrugs, tucking her hands deeper into her coat pockets.
"Not really… it just feels like… a nice campus, I guess."
Monica chuckles softly and nods.
"It's okay. You've been through a lot. Just take your time. I'm sure your memories will come back."
They continue walking until Grace halts in front of a stately building marked with the engraved sign Faculty of Arts and Design.
"Nice building, this one," Grace murmurs, tilting her head back to take in its intricate architecture—the sweeping archways, the tall windows glowing faintly from within, the carved details etched into its stone façade.
Then, unexpectedly, something twinges in her chest. She can't explain it—an ache, a pull—as if she has stood here before, as if this building is not entirely foreign.
Monica follows her daughter's gaze to the nameplate, her lips pressing together.
Julian might work in this building… she thinks.
She hasn't told Julian about Grace waking up yet. She wanted to wait—wait until Grace regained more of herself before facing him. If he sees her now, so distant and unknowing, it might break his heart.
We need to keep moving, Monica tells herself, her hand gently reaching for Grace's arm.
"Come on, sweetie. Let's go to the faculty building for your major instead," she says softly, urging her daughter to move along.
"Okay," Grace replies, still stealing one last glance at the tall stone building before letting herself be led away.
At that exact moment, the main doors of the Faculty of Arts and Design swing open. Julian steps out, brushing snow from his shoulders after finishing his work for the day.
His eyes catch on two familiar figures walking away—the posture, the tilt of the head—so achingly recognizable. His heart stutters painfully.
Is that… Grace?
He shakes his head quickly, dismissing the thought.
"She can't be… she's still in the hospital," he mutters to himself, forcing his gaze in the opposite direction even as curiosity gnaws at him.
That night, Eugene and Julian sit across from each other at the small dining table in Julian's cramped studio apartment.
The low hum of the city seeps through the thin walls, but inside, the air feels heavy, thick with unspoken words.
Eugene's face tightens with regret.
"I'm sorry—I didn't know any of this was happening in your life," he says quietly, voice laced with genuine sorrow.
Julian's hand wraps slowly around a warm mug of matcha tea, its gentle steam rising in thin wisps between them. He shakes his head, the motion slow and tired.
"I didn't want to burden you," Julian replies softly, eyes downcast. "Especially with your wedding coming up so soon."
He glances up, offering a fragile smile that barely reaches his eyes.
Eugene's chest tightens, a sharp pang cutting through him—knowing Julian has carried all this pain alone, without even confiding in him.
"So, June," Eugene breathes out, voice heavy with empathy, "you came to our wedding, even with Grace in the hospital… in a coma." He exhales deeply, the weight of it all settling between them. "That must have been unbearable."
Julian takes a slow sip of the matcha instead of answering, the warmth a small comfort against the cold ache inside.
After a moment, Eugene presses on. "And you keep going to see her, right?"
Julian sets the mug down with a soft clink, the quiet sound loud in the stillness.
"Well…" His voice catches a rough edge revealing how drained he is. "It's been a while since I didn't go see Grace."
Eugene's brow furrows in concern. "Why?"
Julian exhales, rubbing his temples as if the question digs beneath the surface.
"Grace's family… They want me to rest. To not wait around, not hold on too tight until she wakes up."
Eugene nods slowly, the unspoken understanding hanging heavy in the room.
"I see… they want you to chill and be okay, instead of spending all your time at the hospital," Eugene says gently, his voice soft in the quiet room.
Julian lets out a small, dry laugh, the sound barely masking the ache beneath.
"Which, honestly, I'm totally fine with staying by her side," he admits, eyes flickering with a mix of stubborn love and exhaustion.
"Yeah, I know," Eugene replies with a knowing nod, leaning forward slightly.
"The thing is…" Julian's voice drops, heavy with something he's carried for so long it's almost a weight pressing on his chest. "I've waited for her for so long—more than that, I've longed for her. Just knowing that Grace is the one I've been waiting for… that she's Hannah, the girl I never stopped searching for… even before I knew she was Hannah, I already loved her. Though I denied it back then, I just wanted to be near her, even if she's trapped in this deep sleep."
Eugene feels each word settle deep in the room, the raw honesty wrapping around them like the cold winter air outside. He listens without interrupting, his gaze steady and supportive.
Julian lifts the mug again, sipping the warm matcha slowly, his eyes drifting toward the dark city skyline beyond the window—the winter night stretching endlessly, quiet and still.
Eugene watches him, the flicker of streetlights reflecting faintly in Julian's eyes.
"June," Eugene says softly, breaking the silence, "Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"
Julian meets his friend's gaze, a slow, grateful smile curling his lips. He shakes his head gently.
"Just grateful to have you as my friend."
"Of course, I'm always here for you."
Eugene returns the smile quietly, the comfort between them unspoken but deeply felt.
A few hours later—midnight. Eugene is gone, leaving the studio apartment wrapped in a stillness so quiet it hums.
Julian stands by the tall window, gazing down at the city far below. From this high up, the world feels almost unreal: rivers of neon light snake through the dark streets, car headlights flicker like fireflies, and towering buildings glow faintly against the winter sky. Snow dusts the rooftops, glittering under the cold city lights.
He draws a long breath, then turns slowly toward the bookshelf along the opposite wall. His steps echo faintly on the hardwood floor.
From the top shelf, he carefully pulls down an old, thick photo album. Its leather cover is worn smooth at the corners, but the stitching holds strong—a testament to how well he's cared for it over the decades.
He carries it to the table and opens it gently, the faint scent of aged paper wafting up.
Page after page holds sepia-toned and black-and-white photographs—faces from another century. There he is: Julian, in cargo pants and a khaki jacket, a cap shadowing his younger face, standing alongside members of the Society. They all smile stiffly for the camera, unaware of the weight their lives would one day carry.
He flips slowly, eyes dark and thoughtful, until his fingers are still on one particular page.
Hannah.
She's frozen in time, smiling brightly at the camera, dressed in a simple black T-shirt and wide denim jeans, standing proudly in front of the old factory the Society once used as their base.
Julian's throat tightens as he gazes at her. For a long time, he doesn't move, doesn't blink—just lets the image pull him backward through time.
"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you back then, Hannah…" he whispers into the quiet apartment, the sound barely reaching his own ears. "All I can do is to wait for you to wake up and pray for you. That's the best thing that I can do."
His eyes blur slightly, but he doesn't wipe them. Instead, he closes the album halfway and lets his mind whirl back, unbidden, to that memory—over a hundred years ago—when he finally found Hannah again after she had left for Costen for seven long months…
It was a sweltering July afternoon, the kind of heat that clung to the skin like a second layer. I stood at the ship's railing, gazing out at the endless blue horizon. The ocean wind gusted hot and heavy, whipping through my hair and brushing against my sun-warmed face, carrying with it the sharp tang of salt and iron from the sea.
The deck was sparsely populated, only a handful of passengers scattered about, most seeking refuge in the shade of the awnings. I stayed by the edge, my hands gripping the railing as the ship groaned softly and slowed its pace, heading into the harbor of Costen.
Minutes later, the vessel docked with a shuddering thud, ropes creaking as they tightened around wooden moorings.
I descended the gangway with deliberate steps, a faint sweat tracing my back beneath the coarse traveling shirt. At the port gate, I produced my forged identification, holding it out to the uniformed guard who immediately narrowed his eyes, scanning me from boots to cap with visible suspicion.