Time, that silent author of all things, turned her pages gently.
Autumn's breath began to lace the mornings with cool mist, the leaves whispering gold and rust in the corners of Halebourne. Between lessons and library hours, between the ringing of bells and the clatter of distant laughter, Desdemona and Aurelius had woven a rhythm of quiet companionship.
They sat together often now, her copper-gilded head bowed over a page, his profile lit by candlelight or the pale glow of dusk. She brought with her an endless well of questions—curious, sincere questions about books, characters, thoughts, feelings. And when she asked them, it felt like she truly wanted to know the answers, not just hear them.
"How many books have you read this year?" she asked one afternoon as they walked beneath the stretched shadows of the courtyard cloisters.
"Not as many as I ought to," he replied. "But I've reread the ones I love."
"I've read thirty-four," she said shyly, her fingers grazing the ivy-covered wall as they passed. "But only five made me cry."
Aurelius glanced at her, lips twitching. "You keep count of that?"
"Of course," she replied, serious. "The ones that make me cry are the ones I treasure."
He was quiet for a moment, watching the way the light played in her hair, how she tilted her head as she spoke.
"And what about the ones that make you laugh?"
She looked at him and smiled—an open, beaming smile that lit her from within.
"I think those are the ones that save me."
Something in his chest softened dangerously.
He noticed it more and more. The way she laughed—not a delicate, rehearsed sound, but a real, full laugh that started in her chest and bubbled out like music. It was the kind of laugh that reminded him life could be light, even when it wasn't.
He noticed, too, how often she smiled at small things: the flutter of a bird's wings, the way the rain kissed the stones, a sentence written just right.
It was growing on him.
No—she was growing on him.
And he feared it, in a quiet, wondrous way.
Each night, after they parted—sometimes with a hesitant wave, sometimes just a glance—Aurelius would return to his study with a racing heart. He sat by the window, quill in hand or keys beneath his fingers, and wrote until the candle burned low.
He wasn't certain when it began, but the scenes of his novel had changed. The heroine now bore a quiet stubbornness, the kind that reminded him of Desdemona. And the words—the words came easier.
He began publishing again. Chapter by chapter. Carefully timed. Always in the hour before dawn.
And like clockwork, the next morning, something magical happened.
It began in the courtyard.
Desdemona had been seated on the edge of the stone fountain, lost in her reading, her expression blissfully unaware of the world around her. Aurelius had approached from behind, meaning to greet her quietly.
But then—
She gasped.
A sound of pure delight escaped her lips as her hands flew to her mouth. She clutched the book tightly, her whole body seeming to tremble with emotion.
"Oh!" she laughed breathlessly, eyes shining. "He said it. He finally said it—'Even in ruin, I remembered her name.'"
Aurelius froze, stunned by the radiance in her expression. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy, and she looked as though the world had just tilted into some softer, more beautiful shape.
Before he could say a word, she turned—and hugged him.
She didn't seem to realize what she was doing.
Arms wrapped tightly around his middle, she clung to him with pure, unfiltered joy, her cheek against his chest, laughing quietly with that same giddy disbelief.
He didn't breathe.
Time halted.
Her scent was soft and floral, like pressed violets between pages. Her warmth seeped into him, unexpected and real.
Then realization dawned.
She pulled back as if stung, eyes wide. "I—I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—I just—I got excited, and—and—oh no…"
He blinked. His pulse thundered in his ears.
She tucked a curl behind her ear, gaze flickering anywhere but his face. "It's not weird, is it? I mean—it's just a book. I get like this sometimes. It doesn't mean—I didn't mean—"
He found his voice, low and rough. "It's alright."
She bit her lip. "I should go."
And before he could stop her, she turned and hurried down the path, the book still clutched to her chest, her hair trailing behind her like fire, the scent of violets lingering in her wake.
That evening, he could not write.
He tried.
He dipped his quill, straightened his parchment, even whispered the first line aloud to coax the words free—but nothing came.
His thoughts wouldn't still.
Every time he blinked, he saw her.
The way she had clung to him without thinking, unguarded, warm. The press of her cheek against his chest. The way her fingers had fisted in the fabric of his coat, just for a second.
She'd smelled like violets and paper and something distinctly her.
And the sound she'd made—half laugh, half gasp—when she'd realized what she'd done…
Gods, that sound had lodged in his chest and refused to let go.
He raked a hand through his hair, heart pounding harder than it should.
It was a hug. A moment of joy. Nothing more.
But then—her arms around him, her breath on his collar, the way her eyes had refused to meet his afterward, how fast she'd run—
She'd been flustered. Ashamed. But not entirely regretful.
And perhaps it was that—just that sliver of possibility—that set his skin alight.
He tilted his head back, exhaling slowly, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer answers.
Did she feel it too?
That spark—that impossible heat—that unfurled between them in the silence?
He touched a hand to his chest, as if her imprint still lingered there.
Then, finally, with a slow and careful breath, he pulled a clean sheet toward him and began to write.
Not a chapter.
Not a scene.
Just a note.
For her.
The ink sank slowly into the page as he wrote:
Desdemona,
There are moments that happen only once. Brief things. Accidental things. A laugh, a glance, a sudden warmth where none was expected.
But they stay. They haunt. They echo.
I think today may have been one of those.
I haven't stopped thinking about it—not because it was strange, but because it wasn't.
It felt… right.
You don't need to explain, or apologize, or run. If joy led you to me, then I consider myself honored to have stood in its path.
A.
The next day, they met again at the gates. Desdemona's expression was composed, almost too composed, as though she'd practiced it in the mirror. Her steps were quieter, more cautious. A shield of calm.
But when Aurelius reached into his coat and handed her a folded piece of parchment—thin, weathered, and marked with careful ink—her mask faltered.
She unfolded it slowly.
A passage from A Valley in the Violet Hour.
A book she had once mentioned in passing, barely more than a breath in a crowded hallway. But he had remembered.
Her smile broke like morning over frost. Soft. Hesitant. But real.
"I thought you'd like it," he said quietly, his voice nearly lost to the wind.
She looked up at him, and for a heartbeat too long, they simply stood there—eyes caught, the space between them humming.
"I do," she whispered. "Very much."
No more words were needed.
They began to walk—slowly, side by side—letting the silence stretch comfortably between them. The breeze tugged at their sleeves like an impatient child, and around them, the trees began to let go of their first amber leaves, spinning them gently to the ground.
It felt like something was beginning.
Or maybe it already had.