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368 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 13, 2025
The snow fell in solemn silence, blanketing the Carpathian Mountains in a hush older than language.Hopefully you get the idea.
[. . . ]
He painted with oils, wrote in Latin and in silence.
[. . . ]
her face lifted to the sun, her soul humming like something half-remembered
[. . . ]
The marble path gleamed with dew, weaving through the ancient olive trees like a memory waiting to be remembered.
[. . . ]
The earth felt sacred beneath her feet, and the breeze carried whispers only she could hear.
[. . . ]
The ache settled in quietly—not sharp, but deep. A throb in the chest where joy had once lived, now echoing with a hollow stillness.
[. . . ]
Her pastries were stories in sugar and spice—ancient recipes whispered down from grandmothers long ago. Some said the dough rose better in her hands. Others swore the almond glaze healed heartbreak.
[. . . ]
"You remember," he whispered. "Even if you don't understand it yet."
It wasn't coincidence. It couldn't be.
This was soul memory.
Old magic.
The kind that defied logic and refused to stay buried.
She reminded him of Celestina — not in appearance, but in essence.That last one is my favorite. Go ahead and smile not with your mouth, but with your presence. Make a tiktok to show the world what that's like.
[. . . ]
His eyes tracked the stars above him, not for navigation, but for answers. For signs.
[. . . ]t
The ache settled in quietly—not sharp, but deep.
[. . . ]
She yearned—not for attention, but for connection. For something she couldn't name.
[. . . ]
She didn't know that her art was not just expression, but invocation.
[. . . ]
The eyes were alive. Piercing.
He had felt in instantly. A pulse.
Not from the canvas—from her.
[. . . ]
She felt her body trembling. Not in fear. In recognition.
[. . . ]
Chiara's hand trembled slightly—not from exhaustion, but from something she couldn't name.
[. . . ]
Then he smiled. Not with his mouth, but with his presence.
...something shimmered faintly around her—like a veil catching sunlight.Whispering in bold text is certainly an innovation.
He hadn't expected it.
That glow. That presence.
[. . . ]
A painting hung behind the counter—one he hadn't seen before. Abstract. Fluid.
[. . . ]
"Do you know what scares you more—losing her? Or letting her see what you really are?"
His answer didn't come.
He didn't have one.
Not yet.
[. . . ]
The he smiled. Not with his mouth, but with his presence. Sad. Tender. Eternal.
And just as she stepped closer—
He vanished.
[. . . ]
What was that?
Who was he?
She didn't believe in fate.
Not really.
But the dream left behind something real. A residue. A hum in her bones.
[. . . ]
Propped on an easel draped in handwoven linen. No frame. No spotlight. Just the raw image—pure, immediate, undeniable.
It was him.
Chiara had painted his face.
[. . . ]
In her hands she had summoned him—not in body, not yet—but in truth.
And it had reached him.
Across centuries. Across bloodlines. Across worlds.
[. . . ]
One pair of eyes flickered open.
Not Gabriel's. Not Celestina's.
A lesser Elder—sensitive to shifts—opened his gaze to the still chamber and whispered:
"She is waking."