n the edge of her drafting

ce, like the static hum left after lightning. The scent of him-clean, m

. She should have erased his name

she picked up

aw, but t

. Lior's hands. Drawn over years, across seasons, changing only in emoti

n rememberi

uestion. It made

en W

ecise. Like someone carefully ch

ketches and silence. Men existed for the canvas, not the heart. Lior was

he was b

-

, she coul

anaged to slice across the ceiling. The shadows kept shifti

e at 2:

er archiv

case she hadn't op

ing lines on old parchment. Before the luxury

here

i

ashion sketch. It

a por

dn't remem

the corner

ffered no explanation. No memory

hone

ju

ess

: "Still think

art ha

age followed

st. 9 a.m. Café Dumas.

The anger rose first. Then the fear. But benea

ios

-

re black from head to toe-clean lines, high c

as alrea

in navy wool, collar open, read

p until she sat

e today?"

friends," s

mirked.

't fill it. She'd learned a long time ago: th

set down

what Café Dum

ve no

cret fittings for soldiers, spies, a

w. "Is this your

my way of telling you: I do

y. "Then say what

nd something in his eyes shift

cident six year

ght her

nted memories. Places I'd never been. Faces I couldn't name

ood ra

ind. Until I walked past a fashion boutique in London. In t

ldn't b

found, the more I knew. It wasn't déjà vu. It was

r jaw. "You think w

said. "I remember. In

proof. That'

Something between us. And now it

ly. "You know no

o, matching

ow en

rned t

e me Lior?" he a

when it came, was britt

call the shadows

dn't a

-

tore through old noteboo

meline. She needed evid

was imag

one sketchbook, t

ci

n her han

she'd ever h

mp. The book drop

st designing

signing fr

idea what else