Chapter 7
Chapter 7
The hours passed slowly, measured only by the distant ticking of a clock somewhere deep inside the walls of the cottage. They sat at the kitchen table beneath the soft golden glow of a single lamp, two mugs of tea growing cold between them, while Lyra turned the fragile, yellowed pages of the ancient diary. The leather cover felt warm beneath her fingers, as if it still held the heat of the hands that had written these words more than a century ago.
He came from the mountains, the first entry of that week began, the ink faded but still clear to read. A stranger with eyes that had seen storms no one else could name. He said his name was Elias. He said he had been looking for me for longer than he could remember. I should have been afraid. I should have called for help. But the moment our eyes met, something in me settled. It was like coming home to a place I had never been, remembering a song I had never heard. How is it possible to miss someone you have only just met?
Elias leaned forward, his elbows resting on the wooden table, his breath catching in his throat. It was all there — every hesitation, every quiet hope, every premonition of tragedy that she had felt even then.
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