It was on one of those slow, golden afternoons at the café that I met Dora.
She was sitting two tables away, papers spread out everywhere — a storm of notebooks, highlighters, and coffee cups. Her hair was tied in a messy knot, and she was muttering to herself about deadlines.
When one of her papers slid off the table and landed near my feet, I picked it up.
"Here," I said, handing it back.
She looked up, eyes bright and tired. "Thanks! I swear, the universe is testing my patience today."
I smiled. "Maybe it just wants you to take a break."
That made her laugh — a full, unrestrained laugh that drew a few glances from other tables. "Maybe you're right. Sit with me, will you? I need an excuse to stop working."
That was how it started.
We talked for hours — about nothing and everything. She was studying psychology, working part-time at a local library, and had this habit of turning every deep conversation into something funny halfway through.
"You look like someone who's learning to breathe again," she said once, sipping her coffee.
"I am," I admitted quietly.
From that day on, we started meeting often. Sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose. Dora was the kind of person who made the world seem lighter. She'd drag me to art fairs, late-night walks, and secondhand bookshops that smelled like time itself.
And for the first time, I began to feel normal.
She'd listen when I spoke, really listen — and never asked for more than I could give.
One evening, while we sat near the river, she asked, "You ever been in love?"
The question hung in the air like a slow note.
"Yes," I said after a long silence. "And it almost killed me."
Her eyes softened. She didn't ask more, just reached for my hand. "Then this time," she whispered, "let's make sure it heals you."
Theo's presence lingered too. Sometimes, when Dora and I met at the café, he'd wave or bring us refills. I could tell he liked Dora's jokes; she teased him mercilessly about his neat handwriting and quiet nature.
And me… I didn't know what I felt.
Every time Theo smiled, a small part of me wanted to believe in kindness again — but another part remembered blood, betrayal, a blade.
Yet when he looked at me, it wasn't like before. There was no control, no demand. Just gentleness — as if he, too, carried something from another life, but had chosen differently this time.
Dora noticed. Of course she did.
"Careful," she whispered one day as he left our table. "He's got the kind of eyes that can make you believe again."
I smiled faintly. "Maybe believing isn't so bad, if it's with the right person."
Days blurred softly into weeks.
My life began to take on a quiet rhythm — work in the mornings, coffee with Dora in the afternoons, small steps toward the woman I was becoming.
Dora was a storm and sunshine all at once. She never tiptoed around pain — she faced it, named it, and still found a way to laugh through it.
She'd come by my apartment sometimes, bringing random things — a bag of oranges, a thrifted scarf, or pastries she claimed she "rescued" from the café before they went stale.
"Sweet things are good medicine," she said once, waving a cinnamon bun in my face.
I laughed — really laughed — for the first time in what felt like forever.
She had this gift of making heavy things feel light.
Sometimes we'd talk for hours about the world — about how people carried invisible stories and how love, when pure, never needed to hurt.
Other times, we'd sit in silence, sharing space, and somehow that was enough.
One evening, as we watched the sunset from my small balcony, she said, "You've got that look again."
"What look?" I asked.
"The one that says you're remembering ghosts."
I stared at the sky, its orange light fading into indigo.
"Maybe I am," I whispered. "But I'm learning to live with them instead of for them."
She nodded softly. "Good. Just remember — ghosts don't get to write your story anymore."
Her words stayed with me.
Then there was Theo.
At first, I tried to ignore it — the way my heartbeat stumbled whenever he smiled, the way his quiet presence steadied me.
He wasn't like the man I had known before, not even close. His movements carried calm instead of dominance, patience instead of power.
One afternoon, I arrived at the café later than usual. Dora had texted that she'd be there soon. Theo was behind the counter, arranging cups.
"Rough morning?" he asked, noticing my tired eyes.
"Just a bit too much noise in my head," I admitted.
He nodded, poured coffee, and slid it toward me.
"Then let this be your silence for now."
It was such a simple sentence, yet something in me cracked open.
He didn't ask, didn't pry — he just understood.
As I sat there, sipping the coffee, I realized how rare that kind of understanding was.
It reminded me that not all men needed to control — some just offered space.
When Dora arrived, she gave Theo a knowing look.
"Did he give you one of his 'quiet therapy' coffees again?"
I smiled. "Maybe he did."
Theo chuckled, shaking his head as he went back to work.
That became our routine — small exchanges, words dipped in kindness.
Sometimes he'd recommend a book. Other times, he'd listen as Dora and I debated life like philosophers over lattes.
And slowly, without me noticing, something shifted.
He started walking us home after dark, saying, "It's not safe for you two alone."
I told myself it was just politeness — but every time he lingered a little longer outside my gate, my heart betrayed me.
One evening, when Dora couldn't make it, I went alone.
The café was quiet, half-empty, filled with the smell of roasted beans and rain.
Theo sat across from me after closing.
We didn't talk much — just watched the rain streak the windows, our reflections blurring together.
Finally, he spoke.
"You always look like you're carrying a story," he said softly. "But you don't let anyone read it."
I looked at him, unsure what to say.
"Some stories," I whispered, "are written in blood. Hard to show them to anyone."
He nodded slowly. "Then maybe one day, you'll write a new one. In ink. Or maybe in light."
Something in me ached then — the kind of ache that comes not from pain, but from recognition.
When I got home that night, Dora called.
"So," she teased, "was it a romantic rain moment or am I just reading too many novels again?"
I laughed. "Maybe a little of both."
"Good," she said. "You deserve someone who makes you forget what fear felt like."
Her words settled deep in my heart.
...
Over the next few months, the three of us became our own small circle.
We shared meals, laughter, long walks, and soft silences.
Dora became the sister I never had, the anchor that kept me steady when old fears crept in.
Theo became the quiet warmth — the kind that didn't burn, only glowed.
Sometimes I'd catch him looking at me with an expression that made my breath falter — not lust, not pity, but something gentler, deeper.
And for the first time in both my lives, I didn't run from it.
I still wasn't ready to call it love.
But I was learning that maybe, love wasn't something that demanded or destroyed.
Maybe, real love waited.
The weather had started to shift — the kind of early spring that couldn't decide between sunlight and rain.
I'd begun sleeping uneasily again. Dreams came, strange and tangled. In them, I saw flickers of the past: stone walls, firelight, the glint of a blade. His face. Always his face.
Sometimes I'd wake in the middle of the night with my heart pounding, whispering to myself that I was safe — that this life was different.
But the body remembers, even what the mind tries to bury.
One morning, I arrived at the café looking pale and distant. Dora noticed immediately.
"You're having those dreams again," she said, handing me a muffin like it was medicine.
I nodded. "They feel real. Like I'm reliving it."
Dora leaned on the table, eyes soft but firm. "You survived once. But this time, you're not alone."
Theo approached quietly with our coffees. His expression darkened when he saw my trembling hands.
"Bad night?"
"Something like that," I whispered.
He sat down beside me — not across, but beside.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I don't think you'd believe it," I said.
"Try me."
So, for the first time, I told them. Not everything, but enough — how sometimes I felt like I had lived before, how memories of another world haunted me, how fear still crawled under my skin even when everything looked calm.
When I finished, I expected silence or disbelief. But Theo just nodded.
"I don't think you're crazy," he said simply. "Sometimes the soul remembers what the world forgets."
Something inside me eased.
Dora reached across the table and took my hand. "We'll help you build a new ending," she said. "Not one written in fear."