Sophie, Present Day
Sophie's shoes were damp with dew when she stepped onto the cracked front porch of her aunt's bungalow. She paused before opening the door, brushing the soft drizzle from her curls, her fingers trembling slightly.
Not from cold.
From something else.
From him.
---
Inside, the air was warm and smelled of baked pancakes, old books, and lavender oil. Her aunt's signature blend. A balm for tired lungs and tired hearts.
Sophie didn't announce herself. She just toed off her sneakers by the door and moved through the hallway with practiced quiet. She needed space. Stillness. Somewhere to sit with the memory of James's voice still echoing in her chest.
She headed for the little attic room above the kitchen — her sanctuary since she moved in two years ago, when the hospital visits grew more frequent and the specialists stopped promising more time.
It was small, cluttered with mismatched furniture and posters of star maps she used to memorize as a child. The ceiling slanted low on one side, and the single window overlooked the overgrown garden where her aunt grew basil, hibiscus, and bitterleaf.
Sophie curled up on the bed, notebook still clutched in her arms. She hadn't written anything yet.
Not because she didn't know what to say.
But because she knew exactly what she'd write, and she wasn't ready to see it on paper.
---
She replayed the afternoon in her mind — the coffee, the croissants, the slow, deliberate way James watched her like she was a living thing in a museum. As if he couldn't believe she was real.
Or maybe as if he didn't want to get too close in case she vanished.
He never touched her. Never asked to. But there was a gentleness in his every word, a quiet gravity that pulled her in no matter how hard she resisted.
And she was resisting. She had to.
Didn't she?
---
A knock on the doorframe broke her thoughts.
Aunt Anne stood in the doorway, head wrapped in a soft maroon scarf, holding a ceramic mug in both hands. Her smile was small and patient.
"I made ginger tea," she said.
Sophie sat up. "Thanks."
Her aunt handed her the cup and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to wrinkle the throw blanket.
"You've been quiet today," she said.
"I'm always quiet."
"Not like this."
Sophie took a sip. The tea was warm, spicy, grounding.
"I saw him again," she murmured.
"The boy from the cemetery?"
Sophie nodded. "James."
"And?" Her aunt's voice was gentle, but not without caution.
Sophie stared into the tea. "I don't know what this is. I don't know why I keep going back."
Anne gave her a look. "Sweetheart. You do."
---
They sat in silence. Then Sophie whispered the thing she hadn't said out loud, even to herself:
"When I'm with him... I forget."
"Forget what?"
"That I'm running out of time."
Aunt Anne reached over and touched her hand. "It's okay to want more than survival."
Sophie's throat tightened. "But what if I give him pieces of myself that I can't get back?"
Anne smiled softly. "Then maybe you finally found someone worth giving them to."
---
That night, Sophie lay awake beneath the sloped ceiling, staring at the stars taped to her wall. She finally opened her notebook, flipping past old letters written in desperation, in rage, in grief.
Tonight's was quieter.
Dear Future Me,
I think I'm falling into something I can't name. I don't know what he is — what kind of silence lives in his bones, what kind of storm shaped his eyes — but when he looks at me, I don't feel broken. Just... bright. Like maybe I still belong somewhere.
Even now. Even like this.
---