Three days after the inauguration of Celeste's bookshop, *Maison du Rêve* gradually came to life. Curious locals trickled in—housewives, retired teachers, even schoolchildren drawn by the scent of aged paper wafting from the antique building.
Celeste arranged everything with meticulous care. She shelved books by genre and publication year, placed lavender-scented candles in quiet corners, and created a nook for children called "Little Dream Corner." The space was warm, peaceful, and utterly reflective of her heart.
Alistair... could only watch from afar with awed silence. He didn't interfere. This was Celeste's world—a place where she could exist freely, untethered from the Vaughn name or its shadows.
That evening, as closing time approached, Celeste wiped down the counter and checked the small mailbox hung by the entrance. Most contained flyers and congratulatory notes from neighbors.
But one envelope stood out.
No stamp. No address. No sender.
Only neat black ink on its front:
*For Celeste Carter Vaughn.*
Celeste stared at it for a long moment before carefully opening it.
Inside... a single sheet of thin paper with unfamiliar handwriting:
---
*"If you're happy now, hold onto it... because you almost lost everything once. But remember—the past doesn't always stay still. It walks slowly, waiting for you to glance away."*
—*S*
---
Celeste froze. The sounds of the shop faded around her. Her grip tightened on the letter, her pulse quickening.
*S?*
Just one letter. Yet enough to shatter the peace she'd cultivated these past days.
"Celeste?"
Alistair's voice snapped her from her daze. He entered in his black leather jacket, the same warm smile from earlier still lingering.
But that smile faltered when he saw her expression.
"What's wrong?" he asked, closing the distance swiftly.
Celeste hesitated, then handed him the letter.
Alistair read it. Twice. Then lowered it with a hardened gaze.
"One letter?" he murmured.
"Whoever 'S' is... they know me," Celeste said. "And they know about my past."
Alistair paced slowly, his eyes sharpening as he stared out the window. Not just annoyed—*alert*. This wasn't random.
"I'll look into it," he stated firmly. "No one touches your peace, Celeste. Not after how far we've come."
Celeste gripped his arm, gentle yet unyielding. "I don't want this to unravel everything. But I also know... if the past comes for me, I won't run. Not anymore."
Alistair studied her. Long. Deep.
Then he pulled her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her hair.
"You won't face anyone alone. Even if the whole world comes demanding answers... I'll stand before them."
And though the small town remained quiet that night, their hearts stirred with questions: *Who was 'S'? What did they know?*
Most crucially—was their peace merely the calm... before another storm?
---
Night deepened at Vaughn Manor.
Celeste sat by the fireplace, staring at the nameless letter now placed on the coffee table. The fire crackled softly, radiating warmth, yet the air felt... odd. As if something hovered within the tranquility, waiting to fall.
Alistair stood by the window, gazing blankly at the darkened garden, his phone gripped but unused in his hand.
"Do you think..." Celeste's voice was soft but clear, "I'm forgetting something?"
Alistair turned. "Meaning?"
Celeste lowered her head. "My past... I lost parts of my memory after the accident. Could this letter be from someone who knew me before everything fell apart?"
Alistair knelt before her, his expression grave. "Celeste, if fragments of your past return, know this—I won't push. But I also won't stand idle if they threaten you."
"I'm not afraid," she whispered.
"You don't *need* to be," he said, cupping her face. "Because now you have a home to return to. And someone... who'll shield you even from your own shadows."
Celeste held his gaze. No hesitation. No plea for protection—just quiet strength. She wasn't the fragile girl Alistair had once found in chaos and fear. She was a woman who now understood what it meant to have something worth guarding.
She stood, walking to the bookshelf. From it, she retrieved the blank leather journal—Alistair's gift—and opened it.
Without hesitation, she wrote:
*"Today, I was reminded: the past moves silently. But I won't hide. I'll document its every step. If it comes... let it find the person I've become."*
Alistair read over her shoulder, then brushed a thumb along her spine.
"You write with your heart," he murmured.
Celeste turned. "And you... made me believe it was worth something beautiful."
Outside, the night wind howled louder. The windows trembled, the moon hung full and bright.
No other sounds but the clock's ticks and the wind's whispers.
Yet both knew: this wasn't the end. That letter wasn't just a disruption—it was an omen. Someone, or something, would come knocking on long-sealed doors.
And when those doors opened... would their love be enough to weather the storm?