The city did not end when Ilan disappeared.
That was the cruelest part.
Cars still passed. Lights still changed. Somewhere, laughter rose from a bar down the street. Life continued with an indifference that felt almost personal, as if the world had noticed Elia's heartbreak and decided it was irrelevant.
She stood alone beneath the clock tower.
The place where time had stopped for them—and then started again without him.
"Elia?"
The voice startled her. She turned sharply.
A security guard stood a few feet away, concern etched into his face. "Are you okay? This place is closed."
She nodded numbly. "Yes. I'm just… leaving."
She walked past him, legs unsteady, heart hollowed out by something that felt too large to name.
---
For days afterward, Elia moved through her life like a ghost haunting her own routines.
She kept expecting Ilan to appear—in bookstores, at crosswalks, beside her on trains. She kept glancing up when she heard his cadence in a stranger's voice.
He didn't come back.
The absence he had warned her about settled into everything.
Her phone remained silent. The bench in the park felt wrong beneath her. Even the rain seemed less forgiving.
She tried to explain it to herself logically.
He was real.
What we had was real.
But grief is not interested in logic.
It wanted proof.
---
She returned to the clock tower a week later.
The place looked smaller in daylight. Less mythical. Just brick and rust and neglect.
Still, her chest tightened when she stepped inside.
She searched for something—anything—that suggested he had been there. A mark. A sign. A trace of time bending in his favor.
Nothing.
As she turned to leave, something caught her eye.
A notebook, wedged behind a loose brick.
Her heart began to race.
With shaking hands, she pulled it free.
Inside, the pages were filled with handwriting she recognized instantly.
Ilan's.
---
Elia,
If you're reading this, it means I didn't get to stay. I'm sorry I couldn't say this to your face. Time doesn't always allow for bravery.
She sank to the floor, breath hitching.
I don't know where I'll be when this reaches you—or when I'll be. But I need you to know something I never said enough: you changed the way time feels to me.
Tears blurred the words.
Before you, moments were just places I passed through. With you, they became something I wanted to live inside.
She pressed her hand over her mouth.
Loving you was not a mistake. It was a decision I would make again, even knowing the ending. Especially knowing the ending.
The page trembled beneath her fingers.
Please don't measure what we had by how long it lasted. Measure it by how deeply it existed.
And if you ever feel time soften—just for a second—know that some part of me is remembering you too.
— Ilan
Elia closed the notebook and cried the kind of tears that came from somewhere deeper than pain.
The kind that meant love had been real.
---
Grief changed her slowly.
Not in dramatic waves, but in subtle shifts. She stopped rushing. She began noticing things Ilan would have noticed—the way sunlight lingered on buildings, the quiet dignity of ordinary moments.
Time, once her enemy, became something she handled gently.
She started writing again—something she hadn't done seriously in years. Words came out fractured at first, then steadier. She wrote about pauses. About fleeting connections. About love that didn't need permanence to be meaningful.
Sometimes, she wrote to him.
I wish you could see this.
I think you'd like it here today.
I'm learning how to stay.
---
Months passed.
Life did what it always does—it insisted.
Elia accepted invitations again. She laughed more easily. The ache didn't vanish, but it softened, becoming something she carried instead of something that carried her.
Still, some nights, she felt it.
A strange slowing.
A hush in the air.
Like time itself was holding its breath.
---
It happened on a Tuesday.
Because life insists on being ordinary when miracles arrive.
Elia was standing at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. Her phone buzzed with a work notification. She ignored it.
The world slowed.
Not dramatically. Just enough for her to notice.
The chatter of the street dulled. The hum of traffic softened. Her breath caught.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Not exactly the same.
And not entirely different.
Ilan stood on the opposite side of the street, eyes fixed on her like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
The light turned green.
People crossed.
Elia didn't move.
Neither did he.
Time bent—just a little.
"Elia," he said, voice trembling.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "You're not real."
"I am," he said. "For now."
Tears streamed down her face. "You're cruel."
"I know," he whispered. "But I couldn't not come back."
They stood inches apart now, the world blurring around them.
"How long?" she asked.
He swallowed. "I don't know. Not long."
Her chest ached, but her voice was steady. "Then don't say goodbye."
A sad smile touched his lips. "You learned."
---
They walked.
No destination. Just movement.
Ilan told her he didn't fully understand what allowed him to return—only that some moments left marks on time itself.
"You did," he said simply. "You marked me."
She laughed through tears. "That doesn't sound scientific."
"Neither does love," he replied.
They sat on a familiar bench. They talked like no time had passed—and like all of it had.
"I don't want promises," Elia said finally. "I want honesty."
He nodded. "Then here it is. I won't stay forever. But I will come back when I can."
"That's not enough," she said softly.
"It's everything I have."
She considered this.
Then she reached for his hand.
"It's enough for me."
---
The city breathed.
Time shifted.
Somewhere, a clock ticked—then paused.
---
END OF PART FOUR