Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

I WAS EARLY.

Never been early to anything in my life, but tonight?
I showed up fifteen minutes ahead of schedule like some lovesick schoolboy who ironed his soul before leaving the cabin.

The lounge was glowing.

Candlelight on every table. Velvet chairs arranged in a gentle crescent. A pianist in the corner warming up with notes that barely touched the air. It was quiet, but not silent. The kind of room that felt aware of itself.

People trickled in. Dressed to be seen. Talking softly. Laughing in little clouds of perfume and aftershave. The kind of people who always seemed at home, no matter where they were.

And then she walked in.

Evelyn.

A black dress this time. Simple. Elegant.
Her hair was down. Her eyes brighter than before. Her presence sharper.

She looked at me like she’d already been scanning the room. Like she’d been hoping I’d beat her there.

I stood when she approached.

“You clean up well,” she said.

“I do my best when poetry’s involved.”

She smiled, touched my wrist—not my hand, my wrist—as she passed, like a spark you weren’t supposed to notice.

And then she took the stage.

She didn’t read right away.
She looked around first. Took in the room. The people. The silence.

And then she spoke.

“I don’t usually read aloud,” she said. “But lately I’ve been thinking about time. About how it moves. And what it takes from us when we’re not paying attention.”

My chest froze.

She opened a small leather notebook. No title. Just her handwriting.
She didn’t say it was hers. But I could feel it. Every word.

She began:

“I’ve met you before, I think.
In the spaces between lives.
In dreams that feel older than me.
I’ve watched you forget my name
and still hold my hand.
So if I see you again—
if I find you in the noise—
promise me you’ll stay.”

She closed the notebook.

Silence.

And then, slowly, the room began to clap. Softly at first. Then stronger.

But not me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Because I wasn’t sure if she was reading poetry…
or remembering something she wasn’t supposed to.

Afterward, people swarmed her. Compliments. Flattery. The typical rituals.
I waited at the edge of the crowd like a ghost in a borrowed suit.

When she finally saw me, she tilted her head slightly.

“I was talking about a dream,” she said.

“I know.”

“But it didn’t feel like one.”

“I know.”

She looked at me. Right through me.

“Walk with me?”

I nodded.

We stepped into the night. The sea stretched out like silence in every direction. And we walked together.

No destination.
Just movement.