On the bus ride home, Grace leans her forehead lightly against the cool glass of the window. The late summer breeze slips through the tiny crack in the frame, brushing past her skin like a whisper. Outside, the night city glows—cars weaving through traffic, neon signs blinking in vivid colors, people moving like restless shadows beneath the lights.
She closes her eyes.
Her chest tightens.
They looked so close…
The image of Lena sitting beside Julian flickers back into her mind uninvited, vivid and sharp like a dream she can't quite wake from. Her brows knit slightly, and she squeezes her eyes shut, as if darkness alone might drown out the ache forming deep inside her.
For a few moments, she says nothing, just breathes—and prays in silence. A quiet plea only God can hear, rising up from somewhere tender and raw inside her heart.
When she opens her eyes again, the city's still there. Just as loud, just as full of people. But something feels a little quieter inside her.
"I haven't been thinking about the dream so much lately," she murmurs to herself, voice barely louder than a breath.
It strikes her suddenly—how the dream that once haunted her, the one where she spoke of being separated from her family, doesn't sting as deeply anymore. Even the last time it came, the sorrow felt distant, softened at the edges.
"Why doesn't it feel so painful anymore…" she whispers, her gaze drifting upward to the sky, where stars fight to shine through the glow of the city.
That's when she hears it—soft notes dancing gently in the air.
Canon in D.
A simple piano version floats in from somewhere on the street, barely audible over the hum of traffic, but enough to still her.
A hush falls over her spirit.
Peace, like warm rain, settles quietly into the corners of her heart—and then, almost immediately, a flutter. Gentle, sudden. The kind that makes her hold her breath without knowing why.
"Why is this music so familiar…" she murmurs, her eyes narrowing slightly, trying to recall where she's heard it before—why it echoes like something from long ago.
A soft beep chimes through the bus.
She blinks and looks up, realizing she's nearly at her stop.
Grace rises slowly, her body moving on instinct more than thought. She makes her way toward the back door, her hand lightly brushing the metal bar, the music still playing in her ears and something—something unnamed—tugging softly at her chest.
Friday evening arrives faster than expected.
Julian sits upright in his hospital bed, already dressed, waiting for the final visit. The doctor enters with a clipboard in hand, a nurse following close behind. They both stop at the foot of his bed.
The doctor glances down at the chart, flipping through the pages with a furrowed brow and a bemused expression.
"Well, congratulations on your discharge, Mr. Lenter," he says with a smile, then pauses, tapping the clipboard. "But I have to say... something about your case really caught my eye."
Julian raises an eyebrow, curious but unreadable.
The doctor chuckles, still baffled.
"Your bones healed remarkably fast. That alone is impressive. But what's stranger is this—" He holds up the clipboard slightly. "I went through your old records from your previous visits to our hospital. When I compared the data, I noticed something unusual."
He looks up now, eyes narrowing slightly with a mix of disbelief and fascination.
"Your health stats haven't aged at all. I mean, chronologically, you're thirty-five now, and your current condition matches perfectly with that of a healthy thirty-five-year-old male. But here's the odd part… years ago, when you were actually younger, your records still showed the same results. Thirty-five. Almost as if your body had already... stopped aging."
He laughs, shaking his head.
"Bizarre, isn't it?"
Julian just smiles faintly and shrugs
"Maybe all that running is keeping me young."
The doctor lets out a chuckle.
"Well, don't run too much just yet. You've only just healed. Take it easy for a while, alright?"
Julian nods politely to both the doctor and the nurse.
"Thank you—for everything."
A few minutes later, Julian steps out of the hospital, free of casts and bandages, his body fully mobile once more. He hails a taxi, slips into the back seat, and lets out a quiet breath as the cityscape begins to unfold beyond the window.
The cab turns onto a main street, and the late summer evening lights flicker in passing—golden, cool, alive.
"Years ago, when you were actually younger, your records still showed the same results. Thirty-five. Almost as if your body had already... stopped aging."
The doctor's words echo in his head, like a distant bell ringing across time.
Julian leans his elbow against the window frame, watching people hurry along sidewalks, their lives small and ordinary in the best way. His lips curl up in a quiet, ironic smile.
"Yes," he murmurs to himself, voice nearly lost to the wind, "how bizarre indeed…"
It has been one hundred and thirty years since his body stopped aging.
Since thirty-five became not just a number, but a prison. A perfect snapshot of youth that refused to fade. His face, his strength, his very cells—frozen in time. Over the years, he's changed identities again and again, adapting his name, location, and background to match the unchanged reflection in the mirror.
Julian Lenter is only the latest version.
And if he has his way… he hopes it's the last.
But how do I end this immortality? The thought comes unbidden, heavy, cold.
He releases a slow, weary sigh, sinking a little deeper into the seat. A quiet fatigue presses against his ribs. Not physical—never physical—but a spiritual tiredness, the weight of a century lived among mortals.
Then, without warning, her face rises in his mind.
Grace.
Her soft smile. The awkward way she tries to hide her expression when she's nervous. The small, unconscious gesture she makes—brushing her hair back from her forehead with a single hand. That warmth, quiet but radiant, slipping past every defense he's carefully built over the years.
A faint smile touches his lips.
For the first time in what feels like forever, the long road of his life doesn't seem so dull.
Not with her in it.
Soon, Julian is back at his home.
The moment he opens the door to his quiet studio suite, a familiar warmth settles over him. The soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint scent of books and pinewood oil from his shelves—everything reminds him that he's back in his own space. Safe. Solitary.
He walks in slowly, not with fatigue but with a kind of quiet reverence for the peace. Without switching on the lights, he moves to the sofa and sinks into its gentle embrace. The wide window stretches out before him, framing the city's glittering skyline under the velvet cloak of night.
Finally… home.
He exhales deeply, the kind of breath that releases more than just air. Relief. Stillness. The gravity of being alone again.
Instinctively, he checks his phone—notifications flicker to life on the screen. None from Grace.
He huffs a faint breath through his nose and turns away, tapping the speaker app. A soft orchestral swell begins to fill the room—Canon in D, slow and expansive, a favorite he always returns to.
He closes his eyes.
The music flows through him, smoothing out the tightness in his shoulders, grounding him in the present. For a moment, he simply exists—no future, no past. Just the rise and fall of the melody, and the faint ache of something unspoken.
Still, the silence between him and Grace gnaws at the edges of his mind. He smirks to himself.
"So Grace… didn't even text to ask if I was okay."
Beneath the sarcasm lies something else—something uneasy. Not irritation, not disappointment. Just… discomfort. The kind that comes from a fear you don't want to admit.
What if she misunderstood?
His mind replays the moment—the way Grace had pulled the curtain aside and seen him sitting with Lena. The flicker of surprise in her eyes. The way her face had immediately shuttered back to calm as she passed the book, not even looking at him again.
He frowns, eyes still closed, letting the music run over him like a tide.
"Well… she knows I don't have a girlfriend, so…" He says it out loud as if to convince himself.
But it doesn't sit right. There's a tension in his chest that doesn't dissipate. An urge rising within him—to explain. To clear up any possible misunderstanding.
But he knows he won't. It would be strange. Unnecessary.
She'll think I'm weird for bringing it up… might even think I like her.
That last thought lingers.
Because underneath all of it, there's a quiet, growing desire for exactly that—for her to think he might. For her to feel something too.
And then, Lena's words echo back, like an arrow looping through time.
"Of course, I know you only see her as a student, but what if she feels differently about you?"
He blinks slowly, letting the words settle in his head.
What if…?
What if she does?