Tuesday came again, as it always did. The days between had felt like holding her breath underwater — quiet, tight, waiting.
Elara worked the morning in a half-dream: hands moving automatically, feet pacing the same worn tiles behind the counter. Every so often, her gaze flicked to the clock above the espresso machine, counting down to 3:33 PM.
Don't look, she told herself. Don't wait for it.
But hope is its own betrayal.
At 3:32 PM, the café door opened. Ciel stepped in, hair damp from rain, sketchbook tucked under his arm. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world felt almost safe.
"You came back," she said, voice softer than she meant.
"I said I would," he replied, smiling. "Tuesdays seem nicer here."
She turned to make his chamomile latte — and as the milk frothed and the steam rose, the second hand ticked past 3:33 PM.
The familiar pull came, sharper this time. Elara gripped the counter, breath caught in her throat.
And then the café blurred into movement and light.
She opened her eyes on a train, rain streaking the windows like falling stars. The carriage rattled gently over tracks she didn't know.
Across from her sat Ciel — older, perhaps, or simply sadder. His sketchbook lay closed on his lap. He watched her with a tenderness that felt like goodbye.
"Where are we going?" she asked, though part of her already knew.
"Does it matter?" he whispered. "As long as we're together for a little while longer."
His words ached through her chest, but she nodded. Outside, the rain blurred city lights into golden smears.
"Will you draw me?" she asked.
"I always do," he murmured, voice breaking on the last word.
She closed her eyes, wanting to remember the rhythm of the tracks, the smell of rain on metal, the warmth of his gaze.
When she opened them again —
She was back behind the counter. The café clock read 3:38 PM. Five minutes had vanished.
Her heart stumbled painfully in her chest. Ciel stood nearby, brows furrowed, concern etched into the lines of his face.
"Elara?" he asked. "You okay? You seemed… far away."
She swallowed hard.
"Just… lost in thought," she whispered.
"Was it somewhere nice?" he asked, trying to tease the worry from his voice.
"It was… bittersweet," she said. "But yes. For a moment, it was nice."
He didn't push her for more. Instead, he sat down, opened his sketchbook, and began to draw — slow, deliberate lines.
Elara watched the rain slide down the windows, her pulse still echoing the memory of the train, the weight of his voice.
Together, for a little while longer.
And for the first time, she wondered if loving him meant letting him go — in this life, or the next.