Chapter 2: The Weight of Remembered Time
Delary grew up knowing that eyes followed her everywhere she went.
In the grand halls of the estate, servants lowered their heads the moment she passed. Tutors praised her brilliance with a mixture of pride and unease. Nobles who visited smiled too widely, their gazes lingering longer than necessary, as if trying to measure her worth before she had even reached adulthood.
She was twelve when she realized something was wrong with the way Spencer looked at her.
It wasn't inappropriate. It wasn't indulgent. It was something far more unsettling.
He looked at her as if he already knew how her life would unfold.
They met often after that first encounter. Spencer became a frequent guest of her father—sometimes for political discussions, sometimes for matters Delary was clearly not meant to hear. He always arrived calmly, dressed in dark, understated clothing that contrasted sharply with the estate's glittering excess.
And every time, without fail, his eyes would find her.
"Lady Delary."
She turned at the sound of his voice, straightening instinctively. "Master Spencer."
She was seated beneath a willow tree in the garden, a book resting on her lap. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting her dress in soft patterns of green and gold. Spencer stood a short distance away, hands clasped behind his back as usual.
"You're reading again," he said.
"I like books," Delary replied. "They're honest. They don't pretend."
His lips curved faintly. "That's a dangerous thought for someone your age."
"Is it wrong?" she asked, tilting her head. "To prefer truth?"
"No," Spencer said quietly. "It's just rare."
He moved closer, close enough that Delary could see the faint shadows beneath his eyes—tiredness that didn't match his composed demeanor. She noticed it now more than ever. The way he sometimes stared off into the distance, the way his jaw tightened when certain topics arose, the way his fingers curled as if restraining something unseen.
"You look like you haven't slept," she said without thinking.
The words hung between them.
Spencer stiffened almost imperceptibly. Then he let out a low breath. "You notice too much."
"I've been told that before," Delary replied, smiling faintly. "You didn't deny it."
"No," he said. "I didn't."
Silence followed. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was heavy—like a conversation paused rather than ended.
"Master Spencer," Delary said at last, her voice hesitant. "May I ask you something?"
He met her gaze. "You already have."
She swallowed. "Do you ever feel like… like you're standing in the wrong place? As if the world moved forward without asking you?"
Spencer's eyes widened—just a fraction, but enough that Delary noticed.
"Why would you ask that?" he said slowly.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Sometimes I feel like this life doesn't belong to me. Like I woke up inside it one day and never left."
The wind rustled the willow leaves. For a moment, Spencer said nothing. Then he laughed softly—once, without humor.
"You shouldn't say things like that so casually," he murmured.
"Why?" Delary pressed. "Is it strange?"
"It's dangerous," he corrected. "If the wrong person hears you."
Delary frowned. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
Spencer looked at her then, truly looked at her, as if weighing something invisible.
"You're too young to understand," he said.
"That's what everyone says when they don't want to answer," Delary replied, a hint of stubbornness creeping into her tone.
A pause.
Then Spencer surprised her.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I don't want to answer."
Her breath caught. "Why?"
"Because once you know," he said, voice low, "you can't unknow it. And some knowledge comes with a price far too heavy for a child."
Delary clenched her fingers around the book in her lap. "You keep calling me a child, but you talk to me like I'm not one."
"That's because," Spencer said, "you don't think like one."
Her heart skipped. "Then what do you think I am?"
Something unreadable flickered across his face—regret, perhaps, or something sharper.
"Someone important," he said at last. "More than you realize."
Before she could ask what he meant, footsteps approached. A servant bowed deeply.
"Master Spencer, my lord requests your presence."
Spencer nodded. "I'll be there shortly."
The servant retreated. Spencer turned back to Delary.
"Remember what I said," he told her. "About not letting others decide your worth."
She nodded. "I remember everything you say."
His jaw tightened. "You shouldn't."
"Why?"
"Because I won't always be here," he said.
The words struck her harder than she expected.
"You're leaving?" she asked quickly.
"Not yet," he replied. "But time… has a way of correcting things it doesn't like."
Delary frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"It will," Spencer said softly. "Eventually."
He straightened, once again wearing the calm mask she had grown used to.
"I should go."
"Master Spencer," she called.
He paused. "Yes?"
"Do you regret anything?" she asked.
For a long moment, he didn't respond. Then, without turning around, he said:
"Everything."
That night, Delary couldn't sleep.
She stared at the ceiling, Spencer's words echoing endlessly in her mind. The more she thought about him, the more certain she became that he was hiding something enormous—something that bent the rules of this world as much as her own existence did.
And somewhere, far from the warm lights of the estate, Spencer sat alone, fingers clenched tightly around a glass of untouched wine.
He had lived this life once before.
He knew how it ended.
And this time, no matter the cost, he refused to let Delary become another regret carved into the timeline.