London – Late Afternoon
Isabelle's Apartment
The sky was gray.
Not stormy, not calm—just that endless, dull gray that clings to the windows and seeps into your chest.
Isabelle sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the untouched teacup in her hands, fingers numb despite the warmth. The room was quiet—too quiet. The phonograph sat silent in the corner. Even the city noise outside seemed distant, muffled by her spiraling thoughts.
It's been too long.
She hadn't received another letter. No note. No message. Nothing. Not even under Lily's name.
And now even hope was beginning to feel like a lie she'd told herself too many times.
She stood and walked to the mirror, looking at her reflection like it might show her a reason. Any reason.
Her voice cracked in the silence:
"She's not coming, is she?"
She let out a bitter laugh, wiping at her tired eyes.
"Of course she's not. She's a lady. I'm just a story she flirted with before the real ending came."
She turned away from the mirror, brushing her curls back with shaking fingers.
Maybe she never planned to come.
Maybe she's wearing white already.
Maybe she burned the letters.
She moved to the window and looked out at the smoky London streets below, where strangers passed one another like ghosts. She pressed her forehead to the glass.
"God, just tell me if I should let go."
Meanwhile — En Route to London
Mary's Carriage, Nearing the City
Mary's heart was anything but calm.
Her fingers tapped the windowsill restlessly. Her journal lay open beside her, pages fluttering from the breeze slipping through the crack in the glass.
The skyline of London was starting to take shape ahead—its iron and brick and smoky charm rising like a dream she had once locked away.
She turned to Thomas.
"How far now?"
"Just an hour," he said, smiling faintly at her excitement. "Maybe less."
Mary beamed, her cheeks slightly flushed with anticipation.
She thinks I'm not coming, Mary realized.
She thinks I've forgotten. That I've chosen the easier path.
And the thought of Isabelle alone in some dim room, waiting, doubting, made her chest ache.
She clutched her satchel tighter—inside, a folded sketch of Isabelle's portrait and all the letters she'd written but never dared to send.
"I'm coming," she whispered, eyes fixed on the city ahead.
"No matter what happens next—I want her to know I chose her."