Eloise**
I turn slowly, taking in the library with wide, almost disbelieving eyes. It's exactly as I imagined it. Every shelf, every book, every flicker of candlelight illuminating the ancient tomes—it's all here, just as I wrote it.
But it's more than that.
It's familiar.
Too familiar.
I take a few steps forward, my fingers trailing over the spines of leather-bound books. The scent of aged paper and ink fills my lungs, and a deep ache blooms in my chest. This library—it isn't just a creation from my imagination. It's the exact replica of the one my father used to have.
My breath catches.
How could I have forgotten?
I glance around, my vision blurring slightly. The towering bookshelves, the grand window pouring in soft moonlight, the heavy wooden desk with scattered parchments—every detail matches. It's as if I've stepped into the past, into a place I thought I'd lost forever.
My father's library was my sanctuary. The place where I felt safest, where I spent hours curled up with a book, listening to his voice as he read to me. He always said that books held entire worlds within them. That no matter where we were, no matter what happened, we could always find a home between the pages.
And then... he was gone.
A lump forms in my throat.
The car accident took everything away in an instant. My father's voice, his warmth, his love. And my mother—she never forgave me. Never looked at me the same way again. To her, I wasn't just the daughter she once held close—I was the reason he never came home.
I blink rapidly, pushing back the sting of tears.
This world... *this* was the world I always wanted to live in. A place of peace, of stories, of belonging. A place where I could *breathe*.
And now, standing here in Caius's private sanctuary, I feel as though I've been transported back to that time. Back to a version of my life where I was still loved. Where I wasn't alone.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay composed.
Caius is watching me. I can feel his gaze, steady and piercing, even though he hasn't spoken.
He must have noticed something in my expression earlier. That's why he brought me here.
I take a shaky breath and turn to face him. He leans against one of the bookshelves, arms crossed, his golden eyes unreadable.
For a moment, neither of us speak.
Then, in a quiet voice, he asks, "What is it?"
I hesitate.
How do I explain this? How do I tell him that this place—the one he holds sacred—is a painful reminder of everything I lost? That this library feels more like home than my own world ever did?
I shake my head. "It's nothing."
His eyes narrow slightly. "You keep saying that."
Because I don't know how to put it into words.
I look away, staring at the towering bookshelves as memories flood back—of my father's laughter, of the way he'd rest his hand on my head as he read aloud, of the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth.
I want to stay here forever.
I want to lose myself in this world, in *his* world.
I want to forget that the real world is waiting for me at all.
Caius**
Eloise stands in the center of the library, staring at the bookshelves with an expression I can't quite decipher. It's not just awe anymore. There's something else—something deeper, something far away.
She's lost in thought again.
I watch as her fingers brush over the spine of an old book, her hand lingering just a little too long. Her shoulders are tense, her breaths slow and measured, as if she's trying to hold something in.
I don't like it.
"Eloise," I say, stepping closer. "What's wrong?"
She hesitates. I can see the moment she debates whether to lie again. But then, she exhales, her shoulders sinking.
"This library..." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "It's not just something I imagined. I wrote it from memory."
I frown. "Memory?"
She nods slowly. "My father had a library just like this one. The same towering shelves, the same grand window, the same warmth in the air." She lets out a shaky breath. "It was my favorite place in the world."
Her fingers tighten around the edge of the bookshelf. "And then... I lost it. I lost *him*."
A strange sensation stirs in my chest.
She doesn't look at me, but she keeps talking, her voice softer now.
"It was a car accident. One moment he was there, reading to me, and the next... he was gone." Her throat bobs as she swallows. "My mother never forgave me. She—she blamed me for everything."
My hands curl into fists. "Blamed *you*?"
She lets out a bitter laugh. "I was in the car with him when it happened. I survived. He didn't."
Silence settles between us. I don't move. I don't speak. I only listen.
"She changed after that. She barely spoke to me. When she did, it was never the same. It was like she was looking at a ghost." Eloise wraps her arms around herself. "I was alone for so long. Even when she was there, I was alone."
I watch her carefully, the way she stands—small, but trying not to be. The way she speaks, like she's forcing herself to say it all before she changes her mind.
She's never told anyone this before.
I can feel it.
And yet, she's telling *me*.
A heavy silence follows before she takes a deep breath. "That's why I wrote this library. That's why I made *you* the way you are." She finally turns to me, her eyes searching mine. "Because I put a piece of myself into you."
Something inside me stills.
She presses a hand to her chest, right above her heart. "I created you to be strong, to be someone who could survive no matter what. Someone who could endure pain and betrayal and still stand tall." She lets out a small, sad smile. "Because I couldn't."
I stare at her.
I don't know what to say.
This woman—this creator—she didn't just build me out of imagination. She built me out of her own grief. Out of her loneliness. Out of the broken pieces she couldn't repair in herself.
And now, standing before me, she looks so small.
So *fragile*.
I grit my teeth. There is an unfamiliar tightness in my chest, something raw and unshaped. I don't know what it is. But I know this—I don't like seeing her like this.
I take a step closer, closing the distance between us.
"You're wrong," I say quietly.
She blinks. "What?"
"You *did* endure." My voice is firm. "You *did* survive."
She opens her mouth as if to argue, but I shake my head. "You turned your pain into a world. You turned your loneliness into stories. You gave *me* life when you thought yours had nothing left." I hold her gaze. "That is not weakness, Eloise."
She looks up at me, eyes shining with something I can't name.
Then, just as quickly, she looks away, exhaling a breath that sounds almost like relief. "I don't know why I told you all that." She lets out a small, shaky laugh. "I've never told anyone before."
I don't say it aloud, but I know the answer.
Because I *understand*.
Because in a way, we are the same.
Both of us, remnants of a past that refuses to let go.