Late autumn, three o'clock in the afternoon.
The sunlight had tilted long, filling the living room of 1901 in a slow, golden hush.
Celeste sat curled on the sofa, knees drawn in, sinking deep into its cushions.
Behind her, leaning against the backrest, Daniel sat with his arms loosely around her—holding her as one might cradle a small bird—while his other hand turned the pages of The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
His forearm rested lightly across her thighs; she was tucked between his legs, her gaze quietly following the movement of his fingers each time he turned a page.
Only their breathing filled the room—and, now and then, the faint rustle of paper, blended with the soft aftertaste of a classical piece drifting from somewhere unseen.
Then—just as he was about to turn another page, her hand came up, gently covering his.
"I haven't finished that sentence yet."
"…Didn't know you were reading along."
His voice carried the curve of a smile—and the unmistakable glint of someone who knew perfectly well that she was.
The line read:
We cannot bear the thought that we are only one. That our life exists only once, and therefore seems as if it had never been at all.
Celeste kept her eyes on the page as she spoke.
"If it's only once… then I've already spent it wrong."
"…And who decides what's wrong?"
Daniel closed the book, turning his head to look at her.
"Every moment I've spent beside you…even if they were called mistakes—or sins—I'd make the same choice all over again."
"Hmm… then maybe, if I were ever given one more life after this, we should have a code—something only we'd know—so we can find each other again."
Daniel studied her for a moment, then gave a small laugh.
"Alright. If we're born again—no matter what form—"
He set the book aside and took her hand.
"We'll make a sign—something only we'd know."
She leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes.
"For example… let's say…"
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I could show up doing some ridiculous dance, or singing something silly."
Daniel laughed outright this time, tilting his head back against the sofa as he looked at her.
"That would be adorable. Come on—show me now. I'll remember it, and if I see it in my next life, I'll come straight over to tease you."
She laughed under her breath, burying her face in his chest.
"Forget it. I was only speaking hypothetically. I just mean… it should be something so unmistakable that we couldn't possibly miss each other."
Daniel's hand found her cheek, his fingertips answering before his voice did—warm, steady.
"You silly girl."
he murmured.
"Even if you just stood there, doing nothing… I'd still recognize you and run to you. So what's there to worry about?"
She said nothing, eyes closing in his arms.
If they could live a whole life and find each other again—she wished, in that next life, for a love that needed no proof.
Even if names and memories were lost, to remain the one person the other would know first, above all else.
That afternoon, the sunlight wrapped the living room of 1901 in a heavy, warm embrace—as if promising it would not forget them, even in the next life.