Damien Vale
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He watched her from the cathedral's side entrance.
She hadn't heard him come in.
Of course she hadn't. She was too far inside her own storm. That was how he wanted it. How he needed it.
Elena stood near the altar like a ghost visiting her own grave.
Damien let the silence stretch—let her linger in the space between realization and denial. That moment was sacred. That moment was his.
He took a step forward.
The sound of his shoe against the stone echoed through the hollow space.
She turned.
And their eyes met.
No screens. No letters. No shadows. Just them. In light fractured by stained glass, surrounded by dust and old prayers.
Elena didn't move. Didn't speak.
She just looked at him.
Damien had imagined this moment a hundred ways. A thousand. But now that it was here, he said nothing. He didn't need to. His presence was enough—a weight in the air, a heat beneath her skin.
She spoke first. Of course she did.
"…You."
Just one word. Cracked and soft. But filled with something older than memory.
Damien stepped closer.
"Me," he said, voice calm, low, like the first note of a requiem. "You've been looking, Elena."
She shook her head, but her body betrayed her. She didn't step back. She didn't run. She simply stood there, breathing him in like a scent she'd forgotten but had always missed.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
He smiled—not cruelly. Not kindly. Something in between.
"To give you back what they took. The truth. Yourself. Us."
She flinched.
But again—she didn't run.
Damien moved closer, one step away now. Inches. He could see the pulse in her neck, fast and frantic. Not fear. Recognition.
He reached into his coat. Pulled out a folded piece of black velvet. Placed it gently on the altar beside the envelope.
"For when you're ready," he said.
And then, just like he came—
He was gone.
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