Chapter 8 The Long Memory
He comes back at dusk.
I know it before I see him.
The shop has been quiet all day. The kind of quiet that presses on the ears, that makes every sound feel like an interruption. I've spent the hours pacing between shelves, rereading notes I already know by heart, pretending I'm not listening for the door.
Then the air shifts.
Not dramatically. Not like a storm breaking. Just a subtle change, like the room remembering how to breathe.
The door opens.
I don't turn around right away.
The bell doesn't ring this time.
"I thought you weren't coming back," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
He doesn't answer immediately. I hear him set something down his coat, I think. I hear the soft scrape of boots on stone.
"I wasn't sure I should," Alaric says.
That hurts more than I expected.
I turn then.
He looks the same and not the same at all. His hair is damp, darker than usual. His face is drawn, eyes shadowed like he hasn't slept or like sleep doesn't touch him the way it should. There's something raw about him now, something unguarded.
"You left," I say.
"Yes."
"No explanation. No note."
"I didn't trust myself to write one."
I fold my arms, not to close myself off, but to keep from reaching for him. "That doesn't make it better."
"I know."
The honesty disarms me.
"You disappeared," I say again, softer this time.
He nods once. "I needed distance."
"From me?"
"From what you were uncovering," he replies. "From what I was afraid you'd ask next."
I step closer despite myself. "You don't get to decide what I can handle."
"I know," he says again. "But I do get to decide when I'm ready to speak."
My chest tightens. "And are you?"
He looks at me for a long moment. Really looks. Like he's memorizing something.
"Yes," he says quietly. "I think I am."
We sat at the table. Not across from each other this time, but side by side. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the way his knee brushes mine when he shifts.
He doesn't start right away.
Instead, he reaches for a book on the table and runs his thumb along its spine, grounding himself.
"I didn't always live like this," he says. "Surrounded by paper. Silence."
I wait.
"There were centuries when I couldn't stand to stay in one place," he continues. "When every room felt like a reminder that time was passing and I wasn't."
I glance at him. "You make it sound like a burden."
He lets out a soft, humorless breath. "It is."
I don't interrupt. I can feel how carefully he's choosing his words, how fragile this opening is.
"I learned early," he says, "that memory doesn't fade the way people think. Not for me. It piles up. Faces. Voices. Places that no longer exist."
His hands still. I notice then that they're trembling, just slightly.
"Does it hurt?" I ask before I can stop myself.
He turns to me, surprised by the question.
"Yes," he says simply. "All the time."
Something inside me softens, aches.
"You didn't deserve what happened," I say, though I'm not entirely sure what I mean by it yet.
He shakes his head. "Neither did she."
We sit in silence for a moment, the words settling between us.
"She was afraid," he said suddenly. "Not of me. Of the future."
I swallow. "Of watching everyone else die."
"Yes."
The way he says it without bitterness, without accusation undoes me.
"She loved deeply," he continued. "That was always her flaw. She saw the end of things before they began."
"And you?" I ask.
He meets my gaze. "I believed love was enough."
The admission is quiet. Devastating.
"I waited," he says. "Longer than I should have. Longer than hope deserved."
My throat tightens. "For her?"
"For a sign," he replies. "For certainty. For something that would tell me leaving was real."
I shift closer, my shoulder brushing his arm. He doesn't pull away.
"You're not alone now," I say.
He looks down, then back at me. "That's what frightens me."
"Why?"
"Because wanting again means risking memory," he says. "And I have too many already."
I reach out without thinking, my fingers resting lightly on his wrist. His pulse is steady beneath my touch.
"You don't have to tell me everything," I say. "Just don't disappear."
His hand turns, covering mine.
"I never stopped waiting."