Chapter Three: The Book She Forgot The house was quiet. Too quiet for a place filled with two hearts

Chapter Three: The Book She Forgot

The house was quiet.

Too quiet for a place filled with two hearts pretending not to beat for each other.

Éloïse padded barefoot across the old wooden floors of Lucien’s home, the smell of ink and lavender wafting faintly from the hallway. She’d spent the last week drifting between his guest room and silence — recovering physically, but still missing something unnamed.

Something not even the doctors could restore.

Her memory was a half-lit room. There were glimpses — flickers — a boy holding her hand under cherry blossoms… a paper boat on a river… laughter in a thunderstorm.

But every time she tried to hold on to the faces, they slipped through her like smoke.

And Lucien — her so-called husband — never pushed.

Never asked for space in her confusion.

Just left coffee outside her door every morning and turned off the lights before she entered the room.

That evening, the sky turned violet with rain again.

Éloïse wandered down the hall in search of something — she didn’t know what.

She found it in the study.

The room was dim, lined with books and paper — the scent of parchment thick in the air. A candle flickered low beside an unfinished manuscript on the desk. The fire had died, but the warmth lingered.

Her hand brushed against the drawer. She didn’t mean to open it.

But something guided her.

Inside, wrapped in a navy ribbon, was a leather journal — edges worn, soft from years of turning.

She hesitated.

But she opened it anyway.

And on the very first page, she saw her name.

“Éloïse.”

Not a greeting. Not a letter. Just her name — written as if it were both the beginning and the ending of every story he ever told.

Her fingers trembled as she flipped through the pages.

It was poetry. Prose. Memories. Longings.

Written in Lucien’s unmistakable hand.

Some were dated from their teenage years. Some just months ago.