The question lingered between them, silent but heavy.
Who had Celeste been before?
The air in the apartment felt heavier, charged with something neither of them could quite name. Amelia watched as Celeste ran her fingers over the dried paint on the edges of the old canvas, her touch almost reverent. It was as if she were trying to reach beyond the surface, beyond the layers of color, and grasp something hidden within.
Amelia had spent weeks—months—believing she had created Celeste. That every brushstroke, every longing thought had manifested her into existence. But what if that wasn't true?
What if Celeste had always existed—somewhere, somehow—and Amelia had simply… called her back?
The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
Celeste turned, her gaze searching. "Do you think it's possible?"
Amelia hesitated. "Possible that…?"
"That I wasn't just made that night." Celeste hugged her arms to her chest. "That I had a life before."
Amelia wanted to give her an easy answer, but she didn't have one. "I don't know." The admission felt too small for how terrifying the thought was.
Celeste's eyes darkened with something unreadable. "If I did… why don't I remember?"
Amelia reached out, taking Celeste's hand in hers. The warmth was immediate, grounding. She could feel the pulse of something steady beneath Celeste's skin—proof that she was real. That she existed.
"Maybe…" Amelia started carefully. "Maybe you're meant to remember when the time is right."
Celeste's fingers tightened around hers. "What if I never do?"
Amelia held her gaze. "Then it doesn't matter."
Celeste blinked. "It doesn't?"
Amelia shook her head. "You're here now. You're real now. Even if you had a past, even if you had another life, this—this—is still you. And I…" She hesitated, her chest tightening. "I care about who you are now."
For a long moment, Celeste didn't say anything. Then, slowly, she smiled. It was small, barely there, but it reached her eyes.
"I think I care about that too," she murmured.
Amelia let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Celeste shifted, suddenly looking thoughtful. "But I still want to know. "Amelia chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Of course you do."
Celeste smirked. "Wouldn't you?" Amelia sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I would."
A comfortable silence settled between them. The city murmured softly outside—cars passing, faint voices drifting up from the street below—but here, in this small apartment, the world felt still. Amelia let herself breathe, let herself exist in this quiet moment with Celeste, their fingers still loosely intertwined.
Then Celeste spoke again.
"I think I want to try something."
Amelia raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Celeste glanced at the canvas. "Painting helped. Maybe… maybe drawing will too."
Amelia tilted her head. "Drawing what?"
Celeste hesitated, then said, "What I remember."
A chill ran down Amelia's spine
"You mean…"
Celeste nodded. "If I can see it, maybe I'll understand it."
Amelia hesitated. A part of her was afraid of what Celeste might uncover—afraid of what it might mean. But another part of her, the part that had always sought the truth in brushstrokes and color, knew they couldn't ignore this.
She nodded. "Okay."
Celeste smiled, squeezing Amelia's hand before letting go.
Amelia watched as she picked up a sketchbook, flipping to a blank page. Then, with slow, deliberate strokes, she began to draw.
At first, the lines were soft, uncertain. Celeste's fingers hesitated over the paper as if something was resisting her, as if the memories were buried too deep. But then, something shifted. The pencil moved with more confidence, more purpose, as shapes began to take form.
Amelia leaned in, watching.
A doorway appeared on the page, tall and arched, surrounded by something—clouds? Mist? It wasn't entirely clear, but the way Celeste's fingers pressed into the paper, the way she stared at it with such intensity, told Amelia that it meant something. Then, Celeste's hand trembled.
She paused, her breathing suddenly uneven. Amelia placed a hand on her wrist. "Celeste?"
Celeste didn't look at her. Her grip on the pencil tightened. "I—I don't know why, but I feel like I've seen this before."
Her voice was small. Almost afraid.
Amelia swallowed. "Then we're on the right track."
Celeste finally looked up. There was something distant in her eyes, something that sent a shiver down Amelia's spine. "What if I don't like what I find?"
Amelia's chest tightened. She reached up, brushing a strand of Celeste's hair behind her ear. "Then we'll figure it out together."
Celeste searched her face, then nodded.
The air in the room felt heavier now, charged with something unseen. Amelia wasn't sure what they had just unlocked—what Celeste had begun to remember—but she knew one thing for certain.
They were no longer just searching for answers.
They were chasing the past.