Chapter 7: The Memory Box
The morning after their kiss, Elle found Jace gone. A note lay on the kitchen table: Gone to help old Bernard fix his roof. Be back before dinner.
To pass time, Elle began tidying the cottage. In the closet beneath the stairs, she found a wooden box—dusty, locked, but not forgotten.
She hesitated, then found the key beneath the window sill, tucked behind a loose board.
Inside the box were photographs—black and white, faded. A young Jace with his parents. Newspaper clippings. And a letter addressed to "J."
She unfolded it.
"You deserve love, even if it finds you late. Even if you think it forgot your name. You're worth it, Jace. Don't build your walls too high. Love needs a way in."
There was no signature.
Her heart twisted. She knew Jace carried wounds, but this was the first time she felt their weight.
When Jace returned, she didn't mention the box. Instead, she made stew and lit candles. That night, they talked about childhood, fear, and the kind of dreams people forget to chase.
Elle leaned her head on his shoulder. "I think I'm falling for you."
Jace didn't answer right away.
"I think I've already fallen."