With the credit card tucked safely in her bag, Grace steps out of the hotel and into the lively street. The area is a blend of modern design and old-world charm, buzzing with foot traffic and chatter. Neon signs glow even in daylight, and the scent of grilled meat and fresh pastries floats through the air.
She walks slowly, letting her gaze wander. Where's a good place to eat around here? After a few minutes of wandering, her eyes catch a cozy ramen shop tucked between a convenience store and a stationery boutique. Through the fogged-up window, she sees the steam rising from bowls and the rhythmic motion of the chef's ladle behind the counter.
Without hesitation, she heads in. The place is nearly full, and she's lucky—there's exactly one seat left at the bar, directly in front of the open kitchen.
As she settles onto the stool, the warmth of the restaurant wraps around her, melting away some of the exhaustion from earlier. She pulls out the iPhone that Julian left her and casually taps the screen. There's no lock.
"He probably gave me his old iPhone that he reset," she murmurs, a bit surprised but grateful.
Curious, she taps into the phone icon and checks the contacts. To her surprise, there's only one saved number.
"What's this…?" she whispers, narrowing her eyes.
The contact name reads: Kalsary Orphanage.
"Kalsary Orphanage?" she repeats quietly.
Is he volunteering there or something? The thought softens something in her.
He had been cool, almost aloof—but kind. Unquestionably kind. She thinks back: the way he protected her from that drunk gangster, how he brought her here, bandaged her arm, left his credit card… even gave her a phone.
Who does that for a stranger? Her chest swells with emotion.
"I really have to find a way to pay him back. I've received so much," she murmurs, her voice barely above a breath.
Just then, the chef places a steaming bowl in front of her.
"Here you go," he says with a friendly nod.
"Thank you!" she says brightly.
The smell hits her all at once—rich broth, garlic, and soy, the perfect balance of savory comfort. She lifts the chopsticks and digs in, devouring the noodles like she hasn't eaten in days. Technically, she ate on the plane less than six hours ago, but after everything that's happened, it feels like a lifetime has passed.
When she finishes, she leans back with a satisfied sigh. The warmth of the ramen still lingers in her chest.
She pulls out the credit card again and pays, but something tugs at her conscience.
This feels weird… Even if he gave it to her, she doesn't want to take advantage of his kindness.
I'll pay him back, she promises herself. Once I get home, I'll find his contact info through the billing address or something. I'll transfer the money straight to his account.
But she can't wait that long. Impulsively, she opens an internet browser on the iPhone and searches for the credit card company's customer service number. She dials quickly, heart thudding just a bit faster.
After a few rings, a bright, courteous male voice picks up.
"Hello, how can I help you today?"
"Hi…" Grace begins, awkwardly. "I—I wanted to ask something. So, um… I have this credit card that belongs to someone else. His name is Julian Lenter… and I was wondering if I could possibly get his phone number?"
Even as the words come out, she winces internally. I sound like a scammer…
"Just to confirm," the man says carefully, "you're in possession of a card that isn't yours?"
"Yes, but he gave it to me," she says quickly. "Really, he left it for me. I just want to contact him to pay him back. I used it just now for a meal, and I don't feel right about it."
There's a long pause on the other end.
"…I see," the representative says slowly. "Well, Miss, I understand. In this case, we will need to contact the cardholder directly to confirm the situation. I'll give Mr. Lenter a call and then follow up with you. Is that alright?"
"Yes. Thank you," she says, letting out a quiet breath.
She ends the call and stares at the phone's blank background, feeling slightly dazed.
Wow. That was weird. I really hope he doesn't think I'm trying to steal his identity or something…
She clutches the phone to her chest, nodding to herself. It's okay. He left it for me. I'll make this right.
Just then, another thought strikes her.
Wait. That dream… When she woke up in the hotel earlier to the sound of the phone ringing… it was gone.
"I didn't dream last night…" she murmurs, blinking.
For almost a week, she's been haunted by the same vivid dream—of a guy saving her from soldiers in an early-1900s setting. A dream so compelling she had even begun writing it into a novel.
And yet, for the first time, there was nothing.
Was it because of him?
The thought lingers as she steps back onto the sunlit street. The city is alive around her, bursting with energy and color. Antique buildings with ivy-covered facades stand harmoniously beside sleek modern glass structures. The scent of the ramen still lingers, blending with the aroma of coffee from a nearby café.
Grace closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Warm air fills her lungs.
Maybe… just maybe… that man really was sent by God to help her out. Like an angel, disguised as a quiet, distant stranger.
She smiles to herself, the corner of her mouth curving upward.
"Thank You," she whispers.
With a smooth, confident stop, Julian brings the motorcycle to a halt in front of a cozy, ivy-wrapped building with a blue roof. The antique hotel sits quietly under the afternoon sun, the streets around it hushed, with only the occasional passerby wandering through.
Julian removes his helmet, his dark hair tousled by the wind, and climbs the short set of stone stairs leading to the entrance. The door swings open with a soft chime.
"Good afternoon," the hotel clerk greets from behind the polished oak desk.
"Good afternoon, sir," Julian replies, offering a faint, polite smile as he passes.
He waits silently for the elevator, then steps in when the doors part. The metal doors close with a gentle hum, lifting him steadily toward the eleventh floor. Once there, he turns left down the hallway and stops at the first room on the corner.
He unlocks the door and steps into a clean, ivory-toned studio suite. Everything is arranged with quiet precision—minimalist, modern, and tranquil. It's been his temporary sanctuary for about a week now.
Without taking off his jacket, Julian sinks into the soft sofa in the middle of the room and closes his eyes. The image of the girl—the one from the alley, the one he rescued—flickers into his mind like a movie scene he didn't ask to watch. Her wide eyes. The way she looked at him.
Who was she, really…?
He exhales through his nose and shakes his head, trying to force the thought out. But she lingers—her presence etched in his memory far too vividly for a passing encounter.
When he opens his eyes, something across the room draws his gaze. A photo in a slim black frame sits quietly on a low shelf, right beside a small stack of books.
The girl in the picture smiles with a sheepish charm, captured in the soft light of a different time. She wears a white T-shirt and wide black jeans, her hair a little messy, like she'd just run through the wind. She looks young—early twenties, maybe. The image, once faded, has been carefully restored into sharp clarity thanks to recent photo studio work.
"Hannah…" Julian murmurs, voice low.
His eyes stay locked on the photograph. His mind begins to wander again—but then his phone rings.
He snaps his gaze toward it.
An unknown number flashes on the screen. He stiffens.
Julian has learned to be cautious. Unsaved numbers rarely mean anything good, especially not in his life. He doesn't like giving anyone too much access to his identity.
He's about to ignore the call—until a thought stops him. The hotel. The card. The phone. If it's about her, he needs to know.
He answers, keeping his voice low and steady. "Hello."
A bright, professional voice responds immediately. "Hello! I'm calling from Trinity Card Company, and I just wanted to follow up regarding your credit card."
Julian's jaw tightens slightly. "Okay."
"Just a few minutes ago, a woman called our office and asked for the cardholder's phone number—your number, sir. She said she received the card directly from you, and we just wanted to confirm. Did you, by any chance, lose your credit card?"
So that's what this is about. She called the card company. Trying to reach him.
Julian lets out the faintest smirk, remembering the moment she asked for his phone number—how he'd dodged the question without explanation.
"Yes," he says calmly. "I gave her the card myself. There's no issue."
"Ah, understood!" the man says cheerfully. "In that case, would you like us to pass along your phone number to her?"
Julian pauses.