I hesitate, swallowing hard, weighing my words carefully.
"You know I can't."
My voice steadies as I explain, though inside it shakes. "The guards probably have identified my fake ID at the port. I can't return—not safely. And the only way to get back there is on the very ship that left from that port."
I say it plainly, trying to keep my tone even, trying to silence the quiver I feel, even to myself.
The room grows quiet again, the weight of what can't be changed pressing in around us.
Mom doesn't answer. I can tell she's already asleep—her breathing slow and steady, the soft rise and fall of her chest a quiet rhythm in the dim room.
She's always been good at falling asleep quickly, slipping away like a calm tide retreating. I'm the same in some ways, able to surrender to sleep easily, but she's faster—almost as if she knows exactly when to let go.
I hear her gentle breaths but keep talking softly, as if speaking might bridge the silence between us.
"That man who saved me…" I whisper into the stillness, my voice fragile. "I actually really like him. And when I got to Costen, I realized it was time to say goodbye… because I'm leaving now. And I miss him."
A pause, the room completely silent except for the faint hum of the night.
"It's so strange, missing someone like that. I've never felt this way before… about a guy."
The words hang in the air, unspoken feelings flowing quietly from my heart.
"I hope… I really hope I can see him again."
The night stretches long and deep, folding over us like a dark blanket, holding all the hopes, fears, and quiet wishes whispered in the dark.
"Julian…" a soft voice calls his name, barely above a whisper.
His eyes flutter open slowly, heavy and raw.
"Oh… Mrs. Silver." He blinks, tilting his head up as he rises stiffly from the chair. He realizes he must have fallen asleep.
Is it morning already?
He glances toward the window—and the world outside is not morning at all. It's stark, dark, and snow falls relentlessly, swirling in the cold night air.
Monica stands nearby, clad in her white doctor's gown, her eyes gentle but shadowed with worry.
"It's midnight," she says softly, careful not to startle him. "Sorry for waking you at this hour."
"No, no, it's okay," Julian replies, trying to steady his voice. "Are you staying for the night? I can move."
Monica hesitates, a flicker of something unspoken crossing her face.
"Well… yes, I am staying tonight and…" Her voice trails off, uncertainty clouding her features.
Julian catches the hesitation, a cold knot tightening in his chest. He knows what's coming before she says it.
"Julian," Monica's voice drops to a muffled, almost broken whisper, "I'm sorry, but I think you should stop coming. From now on."
His eyes falter, but he fights to keep his composure steady.
"Umm…" He clears his throat, voice catching slightly. "I've been here too much, haven't I? I should've let you have more space, maybe moved aside…"
"No, it's not that," Monica interrupts gently, choosing her words with care. "It's just… we don't know when Grace will wake up. Her condition isn't improving. It's not positive at this point."
Julian feels a sharp pang—a mixture of sorrow and a creeping sense of dread—twisting his insides. He'd sensed it before from the passing nurses and doctors, but hearing it so plainly makes his heart ache even more.
He hesitates, unable to find words.
Monica notices the subtle tremor in Julian's eyes—an unspoken breaking point beneath his usually composed exterior.
She presses on softly, "So, what I'm trying to say is… you don't need to come anymore. Not like this."
His chest tightens further, and he lowers his head, eyes drifting slowly toward Grace—still, peaceful, and silent in the hospital bed.
Then, with quiet resolve, his gaze returns to Monica.
"I'm actually okay with staying here. It's… all right with me."
Monica shakes her head gently, her expression pained but firm.
"No. I can't let you do that. I don't know when—if—my daughter will wake up. And I can't watch you keep waiting like this, day after day. Please don't take this personally. I say this for both your sake and hers."
A small sigh escapes Julian's lips, suppressed but undeniable.
"I see…"
Monica regards Julian with careful, concerned eyes—an unspoken weight pressing between them.
"Go home, Julian," she says softly, voice tender but firm. "Get some rest. If there's any change with Grace, I promise I'll contact you."
Julian lowers his gaze, the words settling heavy on his chest. What can he say?
So, Mrs. Silver… she doesn't want me here anymore. Because she cares—because she doesn't want me to keep waiting here like this.
But still, the ache inside him protests.
"Mrs. Silver," Julian lifts his eyes to meet hers, unwavering. "I want to see her. Really see her. Even with her eyes closed, lying there on that bed… I want to be near her."
Monica's eyes flicker—torn between sorrow and sympathy.
"But if you say I should leave now…" His voice is steady, composed, his symmetrical lips curving into a soft, small smile that holds both strength and gentle surrender. "Then I will."
She studies the depths of his eyes—the raw honesty, the timeless ache. There's something ancient there, a depth beyond years that humbles her despite being older.
"All right," Monica murmurs, nodding quietly, her own lips trembling into a faltering smile. "Thank you for understanding. Please take care, Julian. Get some rest."
She turns away and walks out, the door closing softly behind her.
Julian stands alone now in room 805. The silence wraps around him like a fragile cloak.
He watches the door seal the space between them, then slowly turns his gaze back to Grace—peacefully asleep, untouched by time.
Tears begin to brim in his eyes, but this time they do not fall. He steadies himself, composed, holding a world of deep feeling within.
"Grace," he whispers, voice low and tender. "Even if I'm not here with you right now…" A small, wistful smile presses to his lips. "I'm always with you. Deep inside both our hearts."
Outside, the snow falls softly against the windowpane—a cold, quiet witness to a winter that feels endless.
Very, very winter.
The dark night road stretches ahead, almost deserted—few cars, hardly a soul stirring in the cold. Julian drives steadily, the snow falling lightly, like scattered silver dust drifting through the air. The streets remain mostly clear, the winter's grip softened for now.
He slows to a stop at a traffic light, the red glow casting a muted reflection on the slick pavement. The world pauses with him.
His eyes drift to the city's neon flickers—here a sharp blue, there a warm amber—dancing across glass and steel. The modern skyline stretches upward, a testament to change and progress.
He's known this city for so long, seen it evolve through decades, centuries even.
A hundred years of life unfolds in his mind's eye: old buildings rising, crumbling, replaced by towering new structures; cobblestone streets giving way to paved roads; horse-drawn carriages traded for rickety bicycles, then gleaming automobiles; the crowds shifting, faces changing, fashions evolving—all flowing through the same space he moves through now.
And yet, here he is—alone in this quiet car, drifting through the night, a silent witness to time's relentless march.
The weight of those years settles over him, a quiet ache that only eternity can bring.
"And when will it end…?" Julian murmurs.
A faint, sad smile brushing his lips—one that holds the secrets of countless lifetimes lived beneath the city lights.
The door to the studio apartment swings open with a muted creak, and the narrow hallway light flickers on, casting long shadows that stretch across the cold floor. Julian steps inside, the soft thud of his boots muffled by the stillness of the night. It's 2 a.m., and exhaustion drapes over him like a heavy cloak, his breath visible in the frigid air.
The heater remains off, and the chill clings to the walls and furniture—an unforgiving cold that settles deep into the bones. But Julian doesn't reach for the thermostat or the switch. Instead, he moves deliberately through the dimness, his footsteps almost soundless on the worn wood floor.
He pauses at the expansive window that spans nearly the entire wall where a sheer curtain flutters faintly with the snowy wind outside. Outside, the city lies quiet beneath a delicate blanket of snow, the flakes drifting slowly, like silent whispers falling from an ink-black sky. Neon signs pulse softly in the distance, their colors bleeding into the night haze—cold blues, faded reds, and muted yellows—mirroring the quiet heartbeat of the sleeping city.
Julian's gaze is drawn outward, but his mind is already far away—back more than a century. He sees, vivid and alive, the crowded docks of the 1920s port. Wooden crates stacked high, steam rising from churning engines, the clatter of horses' hooves on cobblestone. And there, in the midst of the bustle, Hannah—her figure framed by the smoky haze—walking steadily toward the waiting ship, her coat pulled tight against the salt-tinged wind.
He remembers how he stood there, rooted in place, heart clenched but face unreadable, watching her silhouette fade into the mist, swallowed by the fog and distance.
Now, his breath forms a pale cloud against the glass as he exhales, and a soft, almost reluctant sigh slips past his lips.
It is not simply the sound of weariness or sorrow. It is a sigh swollen with longing—an ache that spans time and memory.
And beneath it all, fragile but fierce, glimmers a quiet hope.