There are truths that knock.
And there are truths that wait patiently, knowing they will be invited in eventually.
Elia tried to pretend nothing had changed after that night by the river. She went to work. She answered emails. She laughed at the right moments. She told herself that uncertainty was manageable, that not knowing was better than knowing something you couldn't fix.
But Ilan was different now.
Not colder.
Not distant.
Just… deliberate.
As if every moment he spent with her was being weighed.
They met less often, though when they did, the closeness felt sharper—compressed by absence. Elia noticed how Ilan lingered at goodbyes, how his gaze stayed on her a beat too long, like he was storing her away.
One evening, she finally said it.
"You're pulling back."
He didn't deny it.
"I'm trying not to," he said quietly.
"That's not the same thing."
"No," he agreed. "It's worse."
They were sitting in her car, parked along a quiet street. The engine was off. The city hummed distantly, indifferent to the war unfolding in Elia's chest.
"Tell me," she said. "Whatever it is you think will ruin this—tell me anyway."
Ilan exhaled slowly, like someone stepping into cold water.
"You won't like the answer."
"I don't like this," she replied.
Silence stretched.
Then he spoke.
"I don't experience time the way you do."
She frowned. "Everyone says that."
"I mean it literally."
She laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "Okay."
"I know how it sounds," he said. "But please—just listen."
He told her then.
Not everything.
But enough.
That time did not move forward for him in a straight line. That his life existed in borrowed segments, moments stitched together without permanence. That he could stay in one place only so long before the world corrected itself.
"I don't age the way I should," he said. "I don't stay."
Elia stared at him. The part of her that relied on logic rebelled instantly.
"You're saying you're—what? Immortal? A traveler? This sounds like—"
"I know," he said gently. "I know it sounds impossible."
"Then why tell me this?"
"Because I'm running out of room to lie to you."
Her hands tightened in her lap. "So one day you just… disappear?"
"Yes."
The word landed heavily between them.
"No goodbye?"
"I would try," he said. "But it doesn't always work."
Elia shook her head. "That's not fair."
"I know."
She looked at him—really looked. The familiar sadness in his eyes, the careful distance, the way he cherished ordinary things like they were rare.
And suddenly, impossibility felt less important than truth.
"When?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"That's the problem," he said. "I don't know."
After that night, Elia walked through the world like it had shifted half an inch to the left.
She questioned everything. Memory. Perception. Reason.
And yet—when Ilan stood in front of her, solid and real and achingly human—she couldn't deny what she felt.
"You could have left," she said days later, as they sat on her apartment floor, backs against the couch. "Without telling me."
"I've done that before," he said softly.
"And?"
"I still remember their faces," he replied. "I didn't want to remember yours that way."
Her throat tightened. "You think knowing makes it better?"
"No," he said. "I think knowing makes it honest."
They sat in silence.
Then Elia said the thing she hadn't allowed herself to think until that moment.
"So what now?"
Ilan closed his eyes.
"Now," he said, "you decide if this is worth the ending."
She didn't answer immediately.
Because the truth was—she was already in too deep.
Love, she realized, wasn't a contract with guarantees. It was a decision made in uncertainty. A willingness to step forward without knowing how the ground would hold.
"I don't want less," she said finally. "Just because it might hurt later."
He opened his eyes, emotion flickering dangerously close to the surface.
"Elia—"
"I want the whole thing," she continued. "Whatever time we have. I don't want to shrink it to protect myself."
Ilan looked at her like she had given him something he wasn't sure he deserved.
"You shouldn't," he whispered.
"Maybe," she said. "But I will."
They loved differently after that.
More carefully.
More fiercely.
They cooked together, laughed louder, argued gently about meaningless things. They made memories like people aware of scarcity—not desperate, but attentive.
Sometimes, Elia caught Ilan watching her with something close to grief.
"Don't," she told him once.
"Don't what?"
"Say goodbye while you're still here."
He smiled sadly. "I don't know how not to."
Time began to slip.
Not dramatically. Subtly.
Days blurred. Dates grew harder to remember. Ilan would pause mid-sentence sometimes, like he was listening to something Elia couldn't hear.
Once, she reached for his hand—and for a terrifying second, it felt colder. Less solid.
He noticed her fear immediately.
"It's okay," he said quickly. "I'm still here."
"For how long?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
The night it happened, they were supposed to meet for dinner.
Elia waited.
Ten minutes.
Thirty.
An hour.
Panic curled in her chest.
Her phone buzzed at last.
I'm sorry. I need you to come to the clock tower. Please.
Her heart dropped.
The old clock tower stood abandoned at the edge of the city—a relic no one bothered to fix.
When she arrived, Ilan was already there, standing beneath the broken face of time itself.
"You're early," she said weakly.
He smiled. "For once."
Something about him looked… thinner. Like a photograph fading.
"Elia," he said, voice steady but urgent. "Listen to me."
She stepped closer. "What's happening?"
"I don't have much time," he said.
Her chest tightened painfully. "You always say that."
"Not like this."
The wind picked up. The city seemed to hold its breath.
"I need you to remember something," Ilan continued. "Whatever happens next—what we had was real. It mattered."
Tears burned her eyes. "You're not allowed to decide when this ends."
"I know," he said. "But time doesn't ask permission."
She reached for him—and this time, her hand passed through empty air before finding his again.
Her breath caught.
"Ilan…"
He smiled softly, heartbreakingly.
"Stay with me," she pleaded.
"I am," he said. "As long as I can."
Above them, the broken clock face ticked once.
Then stopped.
END OF PART THREE