The rain had softened into a lazy drizzle by the time Elara brought Ciel his cup of chamomile latte. Steam curled between them, faintly floral, almost sweet.
"You remembered," he said, surprise flickering across his features.
"It suits you," she answered, setting the cup gently before him. "You seem like someone who likes quiet things."
"And you seem like someone who notices too much," he teased — though his eyes softened as he spoke.
Elara tried to laugh, but the sound tangled in her chest. For a moment, she remembered the vision — Ciel pale on a hospital bed, whispering apologies she never wanted to hear.
She swallowed hard, forcing the memory back into its shadowed corner.
Not this Tuesday. This Tuesday, he's here.
"Do you always draw people you've just met?" she asked, nodding toward his sketchbook.
"Only when they look like they're somewhere else," he replied.
The answer startled her — not just the honesty, but the quiet understanding in his voice.
"And… do I look like that?" she managed to say.
"Sometimes," he said gently. "Like you're here… and not."
She almost told him. About the blackouts, the glimpses of other lives, the thousand Tuesdays she couldn't quite explain. About the truth that scared her most: that in every life she could remember, it was always him.
But the words stayed locked behind her teeth. Instead, she asked, voice barely above a whisper:
"What about you? Where do you go when you drift off?"
He hesitated, eyes lowering to the rim of his cup.
"Nowhere special," he murmured. "Just… places that feel familiar. Even if I can't remember why."
Their eyes met, and something silent passed between them. Recognition, maybe. Or fear. Or the soft, trembling hope that this time might be different.
The café was nearly empty. A woman by the door read a paperback; a student typed quietly in the corner. Outside, the rain drew slow, shining lines down the window, blurring the street beyond.
"Tell me about your favorite place," he said suddenly. "Any place. Real or imagined."
Elara hesitated, then said softly:
"A little apartment with blue curtains that dance in the wind. The walls smell faintly of rain. And there's someone there who draws in the morning light."
She dared a glance at him. Ciel's gaze was steady, but there was a quiet ache behind it.
"Sounds like a place worth staying," he murmured.
"It was," she whispered.
A silence settled between them, gentle and strangely comforting. In that moment, Elara thought:
Maybe this is how it starts. Not with fireworks. But with soft words over cooling tea.
She memorized him again: the curve of his smile, the charcoal smudges on his fingers, the way his lashes caught the light.
Stay, she thought, though she didn't say it aloud.
And in the quiet space between two heartbeats, it almost felt like he heard her.