Oryn hadn't planned on seeking Lana out that night.
But somehow, his steps led him to the small, intimate bookstore where her reading was being held. The place was warm, the scent of old pages and fresh ink curling through the air, mingling with the quiet hum of voices. A soft glow from the hanging lights made everything feel just a little unreal, like stepping into a world made of stories.
He lingered near the back, unnoticed.
Lana stood at the front, poised yet effortless, holding a copy of her book in one hand. Her voice wove through the space, low and steady, each word measured yet full of something unspoken. She wasn't just reading—she was unraveling something personal, threading emotions through each line.
And he knew those words.
Not in the way one would recognize a famous quote or an old favorite. But in the way someone would recognize a whisper meant only for them.
She had taken pieces of their letters. Not directly—not enough for anyone else to notice. But he heard it. Felt it in the way she strung together certain phrases, in the way her pauses lingered just a second too long.
It sent a strange chill down his spine.
Had she meant to do it? Had it been intentional, or was it just muscle memory—words that had stayed with her, buried in the quiet spaces of her mind, resurfacing in ways she hadn't even realized?
Applause rippled through the room as she finished, bringing him back to the present.
People lined up afterward, books in hand, eager to have them signed. Oryn hesitated, fingers tightening around the copy he had bought. He could leave now. Slip away before she ever knew he had been there.
But then Noa's words from earlier echoed in his mind.
Just talk to her.
His feet moved before he could stop himself.
The line edged forward, and soon, it was his turn.
Lana glanced up, her polite smile in place as she reached for his book—then froze.
Her eyes flickered over him, something unreadable flashing across her face. Recognition? A question? A distant familiarity she couldn't quite place?
Oryn forced himself to breathe.
"Would you mind signing it?" His voice was steady. Controlled.
Lana hesitated only a fraction of a second before nodding. "Of course."
She took the book, flipped it open, and paused, pen hovering over the page.
Her brows knitted together slightly. "What name should I make it out to?"
He could tell her.
Could watch the realization bloom across her face, see the moment everything clicked into place.
But instead, he only said, "Oryn."
Lana nodded, lowering her gaze as she scribbled something down.
When she handed the book back, her fingers brushed his just slightly.
"Enjoy the read," she murmured, like it was just another exchange, just another moment between strangers.
But Oryn didn't move right away.
His thumb traced over the page she had signed. And for the briefest second, he thought—hoped—he saw something in her eyes.
A flicker of something unfinished.
Oryn didn't open the book right away.
It wasn't until he had left the bookstore, the cool night air settling against his skin, that he finally glanced down at the page Lana had signed.
To Oryn,
May the right words always find you.
—L.V.
A simple inscription. Polite. Thoughtful, but distant.
Yet something about it unsettled him.
It wasn't what she wrote—it was how she wrote it. The way her pen dragged slightly on certain letters, like hesitation woven into ink. As if she had debated writing something else before settling on safe words.
Did she feel something? Some faint pull of recognition? Or was it just his own wishful thinking?
He exhaled sharply, tucking the book under his arm. Overthinking wouldn't help. He had already made his decision.
He wouldn't tell her. Not yet.
Instead, he would let her remember on her own.
If the words they had once shared had lingered in her, buried beneath time and distance, then maybe—just maybe—she would find them again.
And if she didn't… well.
Some stories weren't meant to be finished.
But he wasn't quite ready to let this one go just yet.
—
The café was quieter than usual, the warm glow of the evening settling over the space. Oryn stirred his coffee absently, his mind still half caught in the moment at the bookstore.
Noa slid into the seat across from him, arms crossed, watching him carefully. "So?"
He glanced up. "So?"
"Don't give me that." She leaned in, studying him like she was piecing together a puzzle. "Did you talk to her?"
His grip tightened slightly around the cup. "I got my book signed."
Noa's eyes narrowed. "That's it?"
"For now."
A frustrated sigh left her lips. "You do realize you could've just told her, right?"
Oryn didn't answer immediately. He traced the rim of his cup, watching the steam curl upward.
"I want her to remember," he finally said. "Not because I told her. But because she feels it."
Noa was silent for a moment. Then, she shook her head. "That's a dangerous game, Moreau."
"I know."
She sighed again, softer this time. "You really think she will?"
He hesitated.
Then, quietly, he said, "I don't know."
And that terrified him more than anything.
Noa tapped her nails against her cup, watching him carefully. "By the way, when's your next event?"
Oryn wasn't sure what he expected when Noa slid into the seat across from him, but it certainly wasn't the smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She had that air of someone about to stir trouble, the kind that made him instinctively wary.
"So," she started, dragging out the word as she drummed her fingers on the café table. "I need a favor."
He arched a brow, setting his cup down. "Do I even want to know?"
Noa leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. "That depends. Are you the type who enjoys watching things unfold in unexpected ways?"
"Not particularly."
"Shame," she mused, then pulled out a folded slip of paper and slid it across the table. "I need a ticket to your next event."
Oryn blinked, staring at the paper as if it might explain itself. "You want a ticket?"
"Yes. Front row, preferably."
He hesitated. "And what exactly are you planning?"
Noa smiled, the kind of smile that held just enough mischief to be concerning. "Nothing dramatic. Just a harmless switch."
His fingers drummed against the table, eyes narrowing slightly. "A switch?"
"I was supposed to go, but something came up," she said with an airy wave of her hand. "So I'm sending someone in my place."
Oryn wasn't sure what part of that explanation unsettled him more—the casual way she brushed it off or the distinct feeling that he was walking straight into something without knowing the full picture.
"Who?" he asked, though a strange knot had already started forming in his chest.
Noa's smirk deepened. "Someone who needs to be there more than I do."
There was something unreadable in her expression, something teasing yet firm, like she was orchestrating a moment bigger than either of them could understand just yet.
Oryn exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "And you're not going to tell me who?"
"Nope."
He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You're impossible."
"And you're too curious for your own good," Noa shot back. Then, standing, she dusted imaginary lint off her coat. "I'll send them the details. Be nice, yeah?"
Oryn watched her leave, his fingers still resting on the folded slip of paper.
There was something about the way she had said it, the weight behind her words.
Someone who needs to be there more than I do.
His pulse gave an odd stutter.
Because for the first time in a long time, it felt like something was shifting.
And he wasn't sure he was ready for it.