That night, Amelia couldn't sleep.
The moonlight spilled across the bedroom floor, and the wind whispered softly through the broken window. She lay in bed, holding Claire's diary close to her chest, her eyes wide open.
Then the dream came again.
She was standing in the rose garden. The moon was full. The roses were glowing softly in the dark. A man stood before her—tall, in an old soldier's coat, his face partly in shadow.
She reached for him. "Thomas?"
He took her hand gently. "I came back. I promised I would."
She opened her mouth to speak, but the wind grew loud, and the garden began to fade. He stepped back into the mist.
"No! Wait!"
She woke up with tears on her cheeks.
In the morning, Amelia found Lucien already awake, sitting in the rose garden with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looked tired but calm.
"You dreamed it too, didn't you?" she asked quietly, sitting beside him.
He nodded. "We were standing right here. You were crying. I held your hand."
Her voice trembled. "Did I say anything?"
Lucien looked into her eyes. "You called me Thomas."
Amelia's heart skipped. She didn't know why, but it felt right.
"I know it sounds strange," Lucien said, "but what if… this isn't the first time we've met? What if our souls remember?"
She looked away. "You mean… we were Claire and Thomas before? Or Eleanor and Thomas?"
"Maybe. Or maybe we're simply the next part of their story. A second bloom."
They sat in silence for a while. The roses swayed gently in the breeze, as if listening.
Then Lucien stood. "Come with me. There's something else I want to show you."
They walked back into the house and up to the attic. It was dusty and dark, filled with old paintings and boxes. Lucien dug through one of the trunks and pulled out a small, wooden frame.
Inside was a painting—unfinished.
It showed a woman in a white dress standing in the rose garden, reaching for a man in a uniform.
Claire's signature was at the bottom.
"She never finished it," Lucien said. "But I think… she was painting the goodbye she never got."
Amelia touched the canvas. "But maybe now we can finish it."
Lucien looked at her, something deep and gentle in his eyes. "Maybe that's why we found each other."
She stepped closer to him. "Maybe that's why we came here at all."
Their hands touched—soft, slow, and sure.
No more questions.
No more fear.
Just the quiet feeling that they had known this love before.
And now, it had found its way back to them.
As the evening sun filled the attic with golden light, Amelia whispered, "Do you believe in fate?"
Lucien smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"I believe in this."
And then, for the first time—not in a dream, not in a memory—they kissed.
Not to forget the past.
But to honor it.
And to begin something new.
It rained the next day.
Soft and steady, like the sky was crying gently for something lost long ago. The clouds wrapped the valley in mist, and the world outside felt quiet and far away.
Amelia sat by the fireplace in the old sitting room. Lucien brought in a box of old newspaper clippings he had found in the village archive.
"I think I found what happened after the war," he said, handing her a torn paper.
The headline read:
"Fire Destroys La Maison de la Rose — Woman Missing, House Abandoned"
Amelia's hands trembled as she read.
The article said that in late autumn, months after the war ended, a fire had broken out at the manor. The source was unknown. The villagers tried to help, but by the time they arrived, the garden wing had burned down.
Claire Lafleur had not been seen since that night.
"I don't understand," Amelia said, her voice breaking. "Did she… die in the fire?"
Lucien sat beside her, his face heavy with thought. "There's no grave. No body was ever found. Some say she ran away. Others believed she stayed behind—waiting."
"Waiting for Thomas," Amelia whispered.
Lucien nodded.
Amelia pulled out Claire's diary again. There were only a few pages left at the end—smudged with smoke, some burned around the edges.
The house feels empty now. Eleanor has left. Thomas never returned. But I stay.
Because I still feel something. A heartbeat in the walls. A whisper in the garden.
If I disappear, it is not from fear. It is from hope—that one day, someone will find the love we lost.
Let the roses guide you.
—Claire
Tears slipped down Amelia's cheeks. "She waited until the end. Even when she had nothing left."
Lucien reached out and held her hand. "She left the garden blooming. That's how we found her."
Amelia looked at the window. The roses outside were still shining, even in the rain.
"Maybe she didn't die in the fire," Amelia said softly. "Maybe… she became part of the place. The rose. The light. The dreams."
Lucien smiled gently. "Maybe that's why we feel her here."
He reached into the bottom of the box and pulled out a broken locket. Inside was a faded photo—Claire and Thomas, standing beneath the bell tower. Her hand was on his heart.
"They were real," Amelia said. "Their love was real."
"And maybe," Lucien said, brushing her hand, "ours is too."
They sat close in the silence, surrounded by memory and hope. And even though the rain fell hard outside, the fire beside them burned warm and steady.
Then, a soft knock echoed through the front door.
They looked at each other.
"No one else knows we're here," Lucien whispered.
Amelia stood and opened the door.
An old woman stood on the porch, wrapped in a dark shawl. Her silver hair was tied back, and her eyes were sharp but kind.
"You're Amelia Hartley," she said.
Amelia nodded slowly. "Yes. Who are you?"
The woman smiled gently. "I knew your grandmother. I was there the night the fire happened."
Lucien stepped forward. "What really happened that night?"
The woman's smile faded. She looked past them into the house.
"Claire didn't die. She disappeared into the garden. Some say the fire started when she burned the letters she couldn't carry. Others… believe she left through something deeper. A door time could only open once."
Amelia felt her heart race.
"You mean… she crossed into the past?"
The woman nodded. "All I know is… the rose bloomed the next morning. Brighter than ever. And in its petals, I saw a goodbye. Or maybe… a promise."
Amelia looked at Lucien.
"She believed love was stronger than time," she said.
The old woman placed a small seed in Amelia's palm. "Plant this in the heart of the garden. And if it blooms… you'll know her story has found its end."
Then, without another word, the woman walked into the mist and vanished down the road.
Amelia stared at the seed in her hand.
It was shaped like a tiny rosebud.
And it was glowing.
Spring had finally come to the valley. The air was soft and warm, and the roses in the garden were blooming like never before.
Amelia and Lucien stood together, hands joined, near the spot where the old tree once stood. Now, a small rose bush had grown from the seed the old woman gave them.
It was the brightest red Amelia had ever seen—vibrant, alive, and full of promise.
"We did it," Lucien said, smiling.
Amelia nodded, tears shining in her eyes. "Claire's story… Thomas's love… it's all here. It never ended."
They looked around at the garden, filled with roses in every color, the church bells ringing softly in the distance.
"Love doesn't belong to the past," Amelia whispered. "It blooms again and again."
Lucien kissed her hand gently. "Because love is timeless."
As the sun set behind the hills, painting the sky with pink and gold, Amelia felt something she had never felt before—a deep peace.
The past and the present had finally come together. The lost love was found. And their own story was just beginning.
Together, beneath the blooming roses and ringing bells, Amelia and Lucien stepped forward—ready to live the love that time could never take away.
Love's Timeless Bloom had blossomed—forever.