The rain began in a hush, tapping lightly against the leaded windows of Elmridge Hall by late afternoon. Cecily sat curled in the window seat of the library, her journal open across her knees. She had not written since morning, but her thoughts lingered still on the man in her dreams.
He had said nothing of who he was. No title, no origin. Only the request to remember. It haunted her.
She turned back to the first entry, reading the lines over and over. The page felt too thin for something so heavy.
As the light faded, the rain thickened. A fire crackled in the hearth beside her, and the scent of burning pine mingled with damp air.
She closed the book, stood, and made her way back to the eastern wing.
The dream returned that night, as vivid as the first.
She stood in the garden again—only now, the roses glowed with dew, and the ash tree shimmered silver beneath the starlight. The man was already there, waiting for her.
He smiled.
"You came back."
Cecily stepped toward him. "I tried to remember you. I wrote about you."
He looked at her fondly, sadness glinting behind his gaze. "That's more than most."
"I don't know your name," she said. "Every time I wake, it disappears."
He reached forward, brushing a loose curl from her cheek. His touch was warm. "Then I will tell you again. As many times as it takes."
And he did.
He said his name.
It rang in her ears like a bell. She repeated it softly—twice, then again—and it felt like the truest thing she had ever spoken.
But even in the dream, it began to slip.
She reached for him. "No, don't go. Stay a little longer."
"Time always runs out," he whispered. "But I'll find you again. I always do."
She woke just before dawn, tears drying on her cheeks.
His name, already gone.