"I'm back," he said.
Then, footsteps echoed from either side of the staircases in the lobby, and a man and woman, both appearing to be in their thirties, walked down to the first floor.
The man spoke first. "June, I was worried about you. You weren't coming back."
That's when I realized—the man who looked just like Julian Lenter was actually named June.
He looked back, and his eyes landed on me.
"And who is that… girl?"
The woman on his right also stared at me with curious eyes.
June sighed lightly and said, "Well… she was about to be captured by the soldiers. I took her out, and… she doesn't have a place to stay, so I brought her here."
Their eyes softened, and they approached me with warm smiles, as if understanding already why I was there. They probably knew—this kind of thing happened often in wartime.
"You're safe here, honey. Don't worry," the woman said in a calm voice.
She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and I felt a soft, comforting warmth.
"What's your name, honey?" she asked, her voice kind.
"My name is…" I paused for a moment before answering, "Hannah."
Hannah? My name was Hannah? I almost said Grace.
"Hi, I'm Angela," she said with a soft smile.
The man introduced himself as well. "This is Albert."
"Come, follow me," Angela said, gesturing for me to follow.
She walked ahead, and I followed her up the staircase. As I reached the top, I glanced back. My eyes met June's. He nodded slightly, a silent assurance that I was safe. A small smile curved my lips, and a sense of ease settled over me—an unexpected peace in this strange situation.
Angela led me down the hallway and stopped at a door at the end. The room was small but cozy, with a single bed and a small wardrobe.
"Would it be okay if you used this room?" Angela asked, her voice gentle.
"Yes, of course. I'm just so grateful," I replied, my eyes meeting hers.
"So, I see you've lost your home?" Angela asked, concern lacing her tone.
That's when the reality of everything hit me again—the bomb, the destruction, my family lost in the chaos. I didn't even know where they were anymore.
"Yes… for now," I whispered, my voice low and shaky.
Angela looked at me with compassionate eyes and nodded. "You can stay as long as you want here. It's a safe place. At least for now."
"But June… He said I should stay for today only…"
Angela chuckled softly and shook her head.
"He's just being shy. Probably because he met such a pretty and beautiful girl like you, Grace."
I laughed uneasily at that. So, he was just being shy?
"Don't worry. Stay here as long as you need. And whenever you want, you can come up to the third floor. That's where the meals are."
At that moment, my stomach growled loudly, reminding me just how hungry I was.
"Can I… go now…?" I asked, embarrassed.
Angela chuckled and took my arm. "Sure, let's go upstairs."
"Yes, but before that…"
"Yes, honey?" Angela looked at me with soft, sincere eyes.
"Can I just ask you one thing…?"
"Of course. Ask anything."
"What is this place, really? Who are all of you…"
I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
Angela looked at me with tender, but hesitant eyes. "Do you really want to know? Will it make you feel safer while you're here?"
"…I'm really sorry, but yes… I do want to know," I admitted.
Angela smiled gently, a knowing smile that made me feel like she was looking at a daughter, or perhaps a granddaughter.
"Here, sit down, Grace," she said softly, nudging me to the bed.
We both sat, and Angela looked at me with those warm eyes.
"This is what we do, Grace…"]
Grace lowers her hands from the keyboard, her fingertips still tingling from the rush of words she just poured out. She's written everything she can recall from the dream—each detail vivid yet slippery, like mist in her memory. She isn't sure if there was more, something just out of reach, but this is all she can hold onto for now.
What do they really do…?
The question lingers in her mind, unanswered. A quiet curiosity gnaws at her, but she already knows: unless the dream returns to her in sleep, she won't find out.
Just then, her bedroom door creaks open.
"Okay," she mutters with a small chuckle, "time to revise this into a proper novel… minus the whole Julian Lenter resemblance."
She chuckles at the thought despite the severe headache. It's strange, really—how she's slowly becoming used to the odd amusement of it. That the man from her dream looks exactly like Julian. The real Julian. The one who's been making her heart stir in ways she doesn't quite understand.
That's when a sound from the front door interrupts her thoughts. The jingle of keys. The quiet click of the lock. The entrance door swings open.
Grace steps out into the hallway.
"Grace, do you feel better?" her mom asks gently, slipping off her flat shoes at the doorway.
Grace gives a slow shake of her head, and her mother catches the weariness in her eyes. It's written all over her—she's clearly not well.
"You didn't eat, did you?" her mom asks, already guessing the answer.
Grace pauses. The truth is, she had fallen so deeply into sleep—so deeply into that dream—that she completely forgot about dinner. But strangely, even now, she doesn't feel hungry.
"Oh, sweetheart…" Her mother sighs softly. "Go back to bed. I'll make some soup and bring your medicine."
She gives Grace a gentle nudge back toward the bedroom before heading toward the kitchen, her footsteps calm and familiar. Grace doesn't argue. She just turns, her thoughts still tangled in dream and memory, and slowly walks back to bed.
Meanwhile, Julian is out on the lake walkway, the rhythm of his footsteps steady against the pavement. Dressed in running shoes, black shorts, and a lightweight windbreaker, he cuts through the cool summer night air.
The breeze brushes against his face and tousles his hair, but he barely notices. His breath grows heavier—he's been running nonstop for over twenty minutes.
This has become routine lately. Night runs. Early mornings. He says it's for the marathon he's training for in two months, but deep down, he knows it's more than that.
Despite the pounding of his heart and the rhythm of his feet, his mind drifts—unavoidably—to the conversation he had with Eugene just a few days ago.
"No, it's not a coincidence," Eugene has said, his voice firm. "Come on. You know that. There's no such thing as coincidence in this world."
The words linger in Julian's mind like a stubborn echo.
He exhales sharply, trying to push the thought away, trying to focus instead on his pace, on his breathing, on the sound of the water lapping at the lake's edge. The marathon. That's what he should be thinking about. That's what matters right now.
"You have to catch this girl, Grace."
There it is again—Eugene's voice. As clear as if he's running beside him.
Julian's concentration finally breaks. Out of breath and unable to shake the chaos in his mind, he slows to a halt and places his hands on his hips, chest rising and falling heavily. He gazes out over the stillness of the lake. The surface glistens under the pale moonlight, a stark contrast to the storm inside him.
None of this makes sense. Not her. Not his reaction to her. Not the timing. Nothing.
The last time he saw Grace—just yesterday after class—she looked exhausted. A little sick even. That image of her keeps returning uninvited, her tired eyes carved into his memory.
Just the weekend. Then Monday. And Tuesday will come. I'll see her again.
He shakes his head slowly and looks down at the dark ground beneath his feet.
Why am I even counting the days until I see her?
Julian exhales, the thought sinking in like a quiet accusation. He feels ridiculous—silly and stupid, even. Ever since he met Grace, it's like he's been tripping over his own thoughts, weighed down by feelings that make no sense and hold no logic. Just the sound of her name seems to unravel him.
It's not just the way she looks. It's the way she feels—in his mind, in the silence after conversations, in the quiet gaps of his day.
But still, he tells himself this is all unnecessary. Foolish.
Only—it doesn't feel unnecessary. It feels… needed. Like a piece of something he didn't know was missing until it suddenly appeared.
He stands still at the edge of the lake, watching as the moonlight dances across the dark, rippling water. The night air is fresh and cool, brushing against his flushed skin like a balm. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, hoping to clear his head.
Maybe I'm just overthinking everything. Maybe it's because I keep trying so hard not to think about her that she's all I can think about.
He runs a hand through his damp hair, frustrated.
She's just a student, he tells himself again, this time sterner. A student you happened to help. Because she looked sad. That's all it was.
The memory flickers—her quick exit that day in the office, the way she stopped in the middle of trying to say something.
You're just a secret donor. And officially, you're just her professor.
He opens his eyes slowly, gaze locked on the moonlit water.