52.

The morning broke gently across the sky, but Caelan did not stir right away.

He was already awake.

Had been for a while.

Lying in the stillness of his bedroom—massive, cold, and far too quiet—he stared at the ceiling with his heart beating unevenly against his chest. The fine linen sheets were tangled around his legs, as if he’d fought sleep all night. But it wasn’t restlessness that had disturbed him.

It was the dream.

A dream that didn’t feel like a dream at all.

He’d seen her.

Alina.

Not the one from now—not the tired-eyed girl who looked away when he stared too long—but a younger, softer version of her. Freer. Lighter.

She had worn robes of lavender and silver, her hair done like nobility, and when she had looked at him… she’d smiled.

No fear. No hesitance.

Just her.

And he—he had laughed. Actually laughed. Like a boy without a past, without expectations, without the shadows that clung to his every breath. They had run through gardens and whispered about nonsense. He didn’t remember the words, but he remembered how it felt.

Like he had never known loss. Like nothing else had ever mattered.

And when she said "You always leave," her voice had cracked in his dream—and something inside him cracked with it.

Now, in the waking world, that same ache lingered beneath his skin. It didn’t vanish with the sunrise. It deepened.

He sat up slowly, pressing a hand to his chest, frowning at the unfamiliar weight. It was like grief—but for something he had never truly had. Something just out of reach.

Her.

Alina.

She haunted his thoughts the same way she’d walked through that dream—soft-footed but unforgettable. And maybe Hazel was right. Maybe he was an idiot. Maybe running from Alina had never protected her—it had only punished them both.

The worst part?

In the dream, when she whispered "I'm always running to you," she had looked happy to be doing it.

And he hadn’t deserved that.

He didn’t deserve it now either.

But he wanted it.

God, he wanted it.

He stood and walked to the window, pulling open the sheer curtains. Morning light filtered through the glass, casting warm gold across the marble floor, but Caelan barely noticed.

Across the street, barely visible through the trees, stood the condo building.

Her building.

He had memorized the number of floors. Knew which balcony was hers. Had told himself it didn’t matter. That keeping his distance was the right thing to do.

But now, he wasn’t so sure.

Caelan rubbed his jaw, suddenly aware of how tight it had become. His reflection in the glass looked worn, older than his years despite the fact that he hadn’t aged a day in over a thousand. His silver-white hair fell messily over his brow, and there were shadows under his eyes.

But there was something else in them, too.

Resolve.

And maybe—just maybe—regret.

He turned away, walked to the heavy desk across the room, and reached for his phone. A dozen unread emails, five missed calls, and several meeting reminders flashed across the screen. He ignored them all.

His thumb hovered over her name.

Alina Martin.

He didn’t press it.

Not yet.

But the dream… the memory… it clung to him like silk. And for the first time in days, he whispered her name aloud, barely audible in the quiet of the room.

“Alina.”

And though there was no answer, the silence seemed to hum with possibility.

Like the world was waiting on him.

To do something different.

To stop running.

To face her.