The aura of Seraphine's discharge was gray again—soft, muted light spilled behind pale curtains, as though reluctant to wake the world. The room held the delicate scent of disinfectant mingled with the lingering trace of night's cool air.
Callum unknowingly had fallen asleep.
This time, Sera is guarding him as they wait for Jonas, their butler.
She had just finished changing into her coat when a knock came at the door.
Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.
Callum, woke up, stiffened as if the gentle rap had disrupted a fragile silence. The cool glass and the distant murmur of the hospital echoed in the space around him.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
He rose, smoothing his cuffs with a slow, deliberate care—as if each motion served to calm the storm beneath his unreadable expression. His eyes met hers for a fleeting moment, charged with unuttered words.
"I'll go settle the bill," he said quietly, his voice low and measured. "Give you two a moment."
She watched him leave, his footsteps a quiet retreat that left behind a ghost of the past. He didn't look back. But he didn't look at her either.
After the door clicked shut, it creaked open once more—to her.
Dahlia stepped in softly, moving with a measured grace. Dressed in modest clothing with her hair tied loosely, her eyes were gentle yet weighted, reflecting a weariness born of unspoken burdens. She looked tired—but not frail. In one hand, she clutched a well-worn paper bag that carried the faint aroma of almonds and something homemade.
"Congratulations on your mother's good recovery," Sera said calmly, her tone steady yet edged with remnant tension.
Dahlia smiled, a slow, gentle curve of her lips. "And congratulations on your marriage."
There was no barbed retort—only something solemn, soft, as if both wished to honor unspoken promises.
Dahlia approached and carefully set the bag on the side table, its paper rustling as it rested against the worn wood.
"These are Callum's favorite almond biscuits. He used to eat them whenever he couldn't sleep."
Sera remained still, arms loosely folded over her coat, her guarded expression neither welcoming nor dismissive.
Dahlia exhaled, a nervous, almost hesitant breath, and began speaking—not rushed, not dramatic, but with quiet care as if imparting secrets too delicate to be spoken carelessly:
"He's allergic to shellfish. He won't say it out loud, but it gives him hives. He likes black coffee, no sugar. Sleeps better when there's rain tapping gently on the window. Hates tight collars. Prefers plain white shirts, though he never folds them properly. He runs when he's angry. Long distances. No direction."
Sera's brows twitched faintly, the smallest flicker of acknowledgment stirring in her eyes.
"He can't handle sweet wine. He cooks well but won't admit it. When he's upset, he listens to old jazz alone in his car. He reads poetry before board meetings. He doesn't want people to know."
Sera stepped closer, her gaze unwavering, as if determined to claim these scattered intimacies for herself.
"I'll learn those things myself."
Dahlia opened her mouth as if to protest.
"But—"
"I said…" Seraphine lowered her voice, almost tenderly now, "I'll find out. In time. In my way."
Dahlia's eyes met hers—really met her eyes—for one long, silent moment. In that gaze lay a quiet history and the echo of promises made long ago. Then, nodding slowly with her composure intact yet something raw flickering behind her eyes, she turned toward the door—then paused.
"Like you promised before," she said quietly, her voice steady as she recalled old vows. "Once I did what you asked—once I can stand beside him—"
She turned back, voice unwavering now.
"I can take him back, right?"
The words landed like a chill, a winter's breath against Seraphine's skin. Seraphine straightened, her lips parting briefly as if to confess a hidden truth before shutting them again against the intrusion.
The answer should have come quickly. It didn't. And in that heavy pause, a quiet regret unfurled—the kind that coils beneath your ribs, steady and relentless.
"Yes," Sera finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Dahlia's smile was faint, tempered with both sadness and acceptance.
"Then I'll strive."
With that, she bowed her head slightly and turned, her footsteps soft but final as they faded down the hallway.
Left alone, Seraphine stared at the closed door. The silence that now filled the room was louder than any sound—a silence thick with memories, with promises both kept and broken.
Just outside that very door, Callum leaned against the wall. He had just returned from his hiding.
His hands buried in his pockets, eyes closed as if trying to capture every echo of that exchange. He hadn't gone to the billing desk. He hadn't walked away—instead, he had stood there, absorbing every word, every truth passed between the two women who had, in their quiet way, rearranged the pieces of his life.
Then, afraid to make sounds, making sure Dahlia had left no trace, he went to settle the bill.
His now—trapped between the lingering taste of almond biscuits and the chill of unspoken farewells that might come—he didn't know which one he was more afraid to lose.