The bell chimed again. Elira turned slowly, her pulse quickening.
It wasn't Thorne.
It was Ash.
He stepped inside the bookshop like he'd done it a thousand times — not with arrogance, but with a quiet familiarity that unsettled her. He didn't speak at first. He just looked around, taking in the shelves, the dust, the silence. Then his gaze landed on her.
"You read it, didn't you?" he asked, his voice low.
Elira didn't answer right away. The journal lay behind the counter, warm beneath her fingertips. It hadn't stopped pulsing since Thorne left. It felt… aware.
"I don't understand it," she said. "The letters, the names, the warnings. Who are you, Ash?"
He walked closer, careful, as if any sudden movement might shatter something delicate between them. "I'm someone who's tried very hard to forget," he said. "But some things don't stay buried."
Ash reached into his coat and pulled out a page — yellowed, singed at the edges. The ink on it shimmered faintly, like the journal's writing. He laid it on the counter.
"I didn't write all the letters," he confessed. "Only the last few. The rest… came from someone who's not supposed to exist anymore."
Elira's eyes widened. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Marian Calder?"
Ash nodded slowly. "She was my mother."
Silence settled between them like fog.
"She died, didn't she?" Elira asked. "Years ago."
"Supposedly. I was ten," Ash said, his eyes darkening. "But these letters… she wrote them years after she was declared dead. Someone kept them hidden. Someone didn't want them found."
Elira's mind reeled. "Then how did they end up here? In a box at the back of my shop?"
"That's what I've been trying to find out," Ash said. "The journal—her journal—hasn't shown itself to anyone in decades. Not until now. Not until you."
Elira stared down at the page. The handwriting curled like smoke, familiar now. The name signed at the bottom trembled on the edge of her memory.
Something sharp pricked at her consciousness. A distant voice. A scent of cedar and ash. Her breath caught.
Ash watched her closely. "You're remembering something, aren't you?"
"I don't know," she murmured. "It's like shadows on a wall. I can't touch them, but they feel… real."
He stepped closer, his voice gentler now. "The journal responds to emotion. It glows because it's bound to something deeper than memory. It's tied to fire. Not literal fire, but pain. Grief. Passion."
Elira's chest tightened. "And you?"
He met her gaze. "I carry part of it. But not all."
She reached out and touched the journal. It warmed to her hand immediately.
"Why me?" she asked.
Ash hesitated, then whispered, "Because you were part of it once. And someone made you forget."
The floor tilted. Not physically, but in her mind. A flicker — a child's voice. Firelight. A hand letting go. Tears. A promise whispered too late.
The journal flipped open on its own, pages fluttering. Ink bloomed across the surface like it had been waiting for her.
> You've seen him now, haven't you? He carries fire, but not all of it is his. Be careful what you let him burn.
Elira's voice trembled. "What is this?"
Ash's expression was unreadable. "A warning. And maybe… a second chance."
Behind them, a draft stirred the wind chime in the window. The sound was soft, almost melodic.
But it felt like a countdown had begun.