Chapter 9 : The Pages We Left Behind

Wonder if it was all meant to happen. If the garden was always waiting, if the book was always meant to find us.

The rain pressed harder against the windows, a rhythmic, restless sound. I watched you, the way your fingers traced the spine of the book, the way your gaze flickered to the flames dancing in the hearth as if searching for answers in the shifting light.

"I think," I said slowly, "some things don't need explanations. They just are."

You looked at me then, truly looked, as if weighing my words against the quiet pull of something neither of us could name.

"And if there is an explanation?" you murmured.

"Then maybe," I mused, my voice barely above the whisper of the storm, "it's written somewhere between the pages of that book... or in the spaces we haven't yet explored."

A soft breath of laughter escaped you, but it wasn't amusement—it was something closer to understanding. You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbow on the arm of the chair, your chin against your palm. "Do you ever feel like... we're following a story already written?"

I considered that. The coincidences, the whispers of familiarity in places we had never seen before. The book. The hidden path. The way your presence felt less like something new and more like something I had been searching for, without even knowing it.

"Maybe," I admitted. "Or maybe we're writing it as we go, one moment at a time."

Silence stretched between us, but it wasn't empty. The fire crackled, the rain sang its restless song, and between those sounds, something unspoken lingered.

Then, you exhaled, setting the book gently on the small wooden table between us. "Read it with me?"

The question was simple, but it held weight. An invitation—not just into the story, but into whatever was unfolding between us.

I nodded, reaching for the book. The leather was warm under my fingertips, the gold lettering almost glowing in the dim light. I flipped open the first page, my breath hitching as my eyes landed on the inscription written in faded ink.

"To those who find this place—may you understand what was lost before you."

A chill passed over me, though the fire still burned warm. I glanced at you, my heart pounding a little harder. You had seen it too—your fingers curled against your knee, your lips parted slightly in something close to disbelief.

"This place," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the rain. "It's not just ours."

And in that moment, I knew.

The garden, the hidden path, the names carved into stone.

We weren't the first to find them.

And we wouldn't be the last.