Chapter 116

The sunlight had a softness to it that felt almost cruel. Warmth on her skin, ordinary and pleasant, and yet it made her chest ache all the same. Isabel walked slowly through the park, her coat wrapped tightly around her, hands stuffed in the pockets. The world moved around her, children laughing, dogs barking, lovers holding hands. Everything felt normal, and yet, nothing felt like her own.

She paused by a fountain, watching the water shimmer in the late morning light. Ducks drifted lazily, their soft quacks barely reaching her ears over the pounding of her own thoughts.

Maybe I imagined it all, she thought, biting her lip. Maybe Baldwin was never real. Maybe October… was never me.

Her stomach twisted, a cold, tight knot. It wasn’t just doubt—it was terror. The idea that she had lived an entire lifetime in another body, loved someone with her whole soul, and then woken up to find it all gone… it was impossible. And yet, her chest ached as though he were sitting right beside her. His hand brushing hers, the curve of his smile, the sharpness of his gaze—it lingered in her muscles, in her memory, in the very marrow of her bones.

She shook her head. “I’m insane,” she whispered, almost laughing bitterly. “Completely… mad.”

A couple passed by, holding hands. He had dark hair, broad shoulders. For a moment, Isabel thought she saw it—just a flicker of recognition. Her heart leapt violently, and she froze, staring at him until he was gone, swallowed by the crowd. She felt foolish, embarrassed, but also… alive. That flicker, that tiny heartbeat of possibility, made her chest ache with hope.

“Maybe I’ll see him again,” she murmured to herself. Her voice was soft, almost shy, as if speaking aloud might actually summon him. “Maybe… maybe he’s out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting.”

She walked again, slower this time, letting her eyes wander over the benches, the trees, the little café across the street. The smell of fresh bread and coffee wafted toward her, warm and comforting. She hesitated at the door. She had been here before, months ago, alone, trying to feel something she couldn’t name. Back then, she had ordered tea and stared out the window, imagining Baldwin sitting across from her, saying something witty, something impossible.

The bell above the café door jingled as she entered. Warmth hit her instantly, richer than the sun, the smell of pastries and roasted coffee beans surrounding her. She slid onto a stool at the counter, her eyes automatically scanning the room.

No one looked like him. No one had the quiet intensity, the impossible weight of presence that Baldwin carried. But still, the feeling lingered, tickling her skin, pressing at her chest. He’s here. He’s close. He has to be.

The barista, a young woman with bright eyes and a cheerful smile, asked, “Hi! What can I get you today?”

“Tea,” Isabel said simply, her voice low. She barely looked at the menu. Her thoughts were elsewhere, chasing shadows she couldn’t quite name.

The young woman nodded, cheerfully. “Coming right up.” She left, and Isabel exhaled slowly, letting her eyes drift around the café again. There were shelves of books along the far wall—old novels, travel guides, poetry collections. A small bell rang as a door opened in the back, and she turned quickly, heart thumping, only to see another customer.

It’s always someone else. Always the wrong person.

She took her tea, the warmth bleeding into her fingers, grounding her slightly. She sipped slowly, letting the heat spread through her chest. It helped a little. Not enough, not even close, but enough to keep her sitting.

Her mind wandered, as it always did. She replayed October’s life, the details of the Northern Kingdom, the snow-covered forests, Baldwin’s hands, the way he looked at her with so much focus, so much intensity. He loved me. He really loved me. The thought was like fire and ice at once, making her shiver and ache.

And now he’s gone. Or maybe I’m gone. Or maybe… maybe he’s still out there.

She shook her head. “I’m crazy,” she said again, louder this time. The words bounced off the café walls and startled a couple of nearby students. She ignored them, pulling her notebook from her bag. The pages were full—every detail of October’s life, every memory she could salvage, every emotion she had lived. Sometimes, it felt like a map of another world, another life, stitched together in ink.

She scribbled a line about the forest by the Northern palace, a line about the warmth of Baldwin’s hand in hers, a line about Scheuer laughing as if nothing in the world could touch her. Then she stopped and looked at the page. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

I need him. I have to find him.

The café door jingled again, and Isabel looked up instinctively. A man came in, tall, dark hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His coat was long, dark, and swept behind him as he moved. She froze. Her chest hammered. He wasn’t Baldwin. He wasn’t him. And yet… something in the tilt of his shoulders, the way he carried himself… it made her heart ache.

She closed her notebook and hugged it to her chest, breathing quickly. “It’s never him,” she whispered. “It’s never him. I’m imagining it.”

A week later, she found herself wandering through a bookstore. She moved through the aisles almost automatically, her fingers brushing the spines, smelling the paper, the glue, the faint musk of old stories. She found herself in the travel section, maps and history books stacked neatly on low shelves. She picked up a thick book on ancient kingdoms and paged through it, ignoring the text, scanning instead for something familiar. Something… North.

The clerk, a middle-aged man with a kindly face, asked if she needed help. She shook her head, smiling faintly. “I’m… just looking,” she said.

She flipped a page, saw a picture of a snow-covered castle, and froze. Her breath caught. Her fingers trembled as they traced the edges of the photograph. The memory hit her like a wave—the cold air, the sharpness of the snow under her boots, Baldwin’s hand on hers. She closed the book quickly, hiding the tears threatening to spill.

It was real. It was all real. I’m not insane. I didn’t imagine it.

Her steps became quicker as she left the store, nearly running through the streets. She stopped at a quiet park bench, hands trembling as she clutched the book against her chest. Her heart raced so fast it was almost painful.

“Maybe… maybe he’s still out there,” she whispered, repeating the mantra that had become her lifeline. “Maybe he’s alive. Maybe he remembers. Maybe he’s looking for me too.”

Days turned into weeks. Isabel kept her routines—walking in parks, sitting in cafés, wandering bookstores—but now she carried a small satchel of books everywhere, notes tucked between the pages, scribbled observations, questions she might one day answer. She talked to herself quietly, imagining conversations with Baldwin. Sometimes she laughed softly, sometimes she wept, and sometimes she sat perfectly still, listening to the wind, hoping it carried his voice.

Her parents noticed the change. They asked if she was feeling better, if she needed therapy, if she wanted to see friends. She nodded and smiled, but nothing touched the ache inside her. She had healed physically, but emotionally… she was still October. Still trapped in another life, still tethered to someone she couldn’t reach.

One rainy afternoon, she sat in a small café by a fogged-up window. She held her tea, watching raindrops race down the glass. “Maybe I’m insane,” she said aloud again. “Maybe I imagined him. Maybe none of it ever happened. Maybe… maybe I should just… let it go.”

Her own words made her chest ache. She couldn’t let it go. She wouldn’t. Something inside her—call it instinct, call it love, call it memory—told her that Baldwin was out there. That he had crossed snow and ice, forest and stone, and he would find her again. Or maybe she would find him.

She looked at her reflection in the window, rain smudging the glass. Her eyes, Isabel’s eyes, stared back at her. But behind them, she saw October’s gaze. Sharp. Determined. Full of fire and grief and longing. She traced the lines of her own face with her finger, whispering, “I’m still here. I’m still October. And I’m not done yet.”

The café door opened, and she turned instinctively, heart leaping. A man came in, shaking raindrops from his coat. She blinked, stomach twisting. Not him. Not Baldwin. Just a stranger. She let out a shaky laugh, clutching her tea tighter.

Soon, she thought. Soon, I’ll find him. Soon… I’ll see him again.

And despite the doubt, the longing, and the endless waiting, she felt a spark. A small, fragile flame that refused to die. Something told her Baldwin was still out there, and that hope—real, impossible, stubborn hope—was enough to keep her moving forward, day after day.