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Novelo Rectangle

--- Chapter Five: Glass Between Us Rain clawed at the windows of the cottage like desperate hands. Elara sat on the edge of the velvet couch, her fingers laced around a chipped porcelain teacup. The tea had long gone cold, but she clung to it anyway—like it was an anchor, like it might keep her from sinking into whatever this night wanted to become. He was late again. The grandfather clock in the hall marked each second with a sharp, accusing tick. She hated that sound. It reminded her of how silence could still scream. A low creak came from the front door. Elara stood immediately. Her pulse jumped as if her body recognized him before her mind could catch up. She crossed the room quickly, every step filled with something close to dread. She wasn’t sure what she’d find on the other side—Lucien had a habit of bringing ghosts with him. He stepped in without knocking, without looking at her. The storm followed behind him, soaking the floor with his footsteps. His coat hung off one shoulder like it had tried to escape and failed. His face was shadowed, his jaw tight, eyes storm-black. “Elara,” he said softly, like her name tasted like guilt. She stared at him, arms tight at her sides. “You're bleeding.” Lucien looked down. His shirt was torn near the ribs, a line of red leaking slowly. “It’s nothing.” She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t ask. There was something fragile between them, and the wrong question would shatter it. Instead, she turned and walked into the kitchen. He followed—he always did. She opened the drawer and pulled out the first-aid kit, setting it on the counter without speaking. He sat heavily on the stool, watching her, eyes tracing her like a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say out loud. “Take off your shirt,” she said, already pulling out gauze. He obeyed, slowly, like it hurt more than he let on. The scars on his body were old maps she had memorized long ago, each one a lie he’d never explained. There were new bruises now. New silence. She cleaned the cut, trying not to press too hard. She didn’t want to hurt him more than life already had. Still, the breath he sucked in when the alcohol touched the wound made her hand twitch. “Where were you?” she asked finally, her voice quieter than the rain. Lucien looked away. “Out.” “You always say that.” “I’m always telling the truth.” She laughed. It sounded more like a crack in the walls. “Your truth has teeth.” “So does yours,” he said. The words landed between them like a confession. She wrapped the bandage too tightly. He didn’t flinch. “I saw Mira today,” she said after a moment. His face darkened, but he didn’t speak. “She said the police came by the bookshop again. Asking questions. About you.” “They always ask. I never answer.” “She says you should leave.” Lucien stood suddenly. She stepped back instinctively. His eyes found hers—haunted, but not angry. “I’m not leaving you,” he said. “That’s not what I said—” “But it’s what you meant.” Silence. The storm howled like it knew what they were both afraid to say. “You’re dangerous, Lucien,” she whispered. “You know that, right?” He stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell the night on his skin. Close enough that her fear and her longing became the same thing. “I never claimed to be safe,” he said. “Not for you. Not for anyone.” “Then why do you keep coming back?” He touched her face then—just a fingertip to her cheekbone, a tremble in the shape of a man. “Because I never learned how to leave you.” She hated how her breath caught. How her body betrayed her with warmth. “You’re going to ruin me,” she said. “I already have.” She didn’t kiss him. She should have. Or maybe she shouldn’t. Instead, she stood there, skin burning where he’d touched her, heart pounding like it was trying to run away from her chest. “You shouldn’t have come tonight.” “I know.” “But you did.” He nodded. And then, for a moment, they were nothing but people made of past mistakes, staring at each other through a window they couldn’t break. She turned away first. She always did. Lucien stayed where he was, still and unreadable, until the fire in the hearth spat a crackle and reminded them that time hadn’t stopped after all. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said. “You shouldn’t stay.” “I’m staying.” Elara didn’t answer. She walked to the stairs, her hands shaking just slightly. She didn’t say goodnight. She wasn’t sure it would have been true. -

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It's about the clockmaker's promise

Muhamed

Lamin

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