The book sat heavy in Lana's hands, its worn edges fitting too perfectly against her fingers. She had read every note, traced every word, memorized the weight of his voice in ink. And yet, it no longer felt like hers to keep.
The café was quieter than usual, the dim afternoon light spilling through the windows in golden streaks. She stepped inside, her heart beating in slow, deliberate thuds.
Noa had asked if she wanted company, but Lana had refused. This was something she needed to do alone.
She walked straight to the shelf where it all began. Her fingers hesitated, lingering on the cover before she finally slipped the book into place. It settled like it had never left, as if the story could begin again if someone only knew where to look.
With a quiet inhale, she stepped back, memorizing the moment, etching it into something permanent.
And then, with one last glance, she turned and walked away.
A soft whisper of a farewell, left only in the pages—
"Some stories aren't meant to be finished.
Some endings don't echo."
___________________________________________________
Oryn hadn't expected to return.
He told himself it was over, that some stories simply faded, unraveling thread by thread until there was nothing left to hold onto. And yet, here he was—standing in the middle of Café Amour, the hum of conversation nothing more than background noise to the ache pressing against his ribs.
His feet moved before his mind caught up, leading him to the same shelf, the same familiar space where it all began. His fingers traced the spines absentmindedly, a quiet exhale escaping his lips.
And then—
There it was.
The book.
Back in its rightful place, untouched yet irrevocably changed.
Oryn's pulse kicked, his throat tightening as he reached for it, opening to the pages where ink had once carried the weight of something unspoken.
His breath stilled.
Her writing.
It was there, final and delicate, a parting note that wasn't meant to be read aloud but felt like it echoed through his chest all the same.
"Some stories aren't meant to be finished.
Some endings don't echo."
His fingers curled around the edges of the book, his grip firm as if it might slip through his hands if he wasn't careful.
She had been here.
She had left this behind.
And she was gone.
A strange emptiness settled in his chest, but beneath it, something else stirred. Something fragile yet unrelenting.
Because stories didn't truly end.
Not when there was still someone left to remember them.