A NEW BEGINNING

The Moreaus didn't question her anymore.

Jean Moreau would beam every time she walked into a room, proud and gentle, introducing her to high society as his miracle. Elise, poised and graceful, would brush Nova's hair at night like she was still a child. She never pried—only watched with quiet sadness when Nova forgot the names of people she was supposed to know.

Everyone welcomed her back like she belonged.

But inside, she felt like a thief.

She Was Surrounded by Kindness, and Still Felt Cold.

At charity galas, people would gush over her—"You've grown so beautifully, Celeste!"

She'd smile, laugh, pretend she remembered the woman who claimed to be her childhood piano teacher. She'd hug old friends she didn't recognize.

She even got accepted into a top university under the Moreau name.

Her face was flawless, her life perfect.

But every day, she stared at herself in the mirror and whispered one question:

"Who the hell am I?"

She Took Solace in the Sketchbook.

Every night, she flipped through the pages. Drawings she didn't remember creating. A necklace she couldn't name. A boy with soft, stormy eyes. Her old face, broken and beautiful.

She began to redraw them, over and over, trying to make sense of what they meant.

Until one day, she caught Jean watching her sketch.

"That's a beautiful piece," he said softly, pointing at the drawing of the boy. "Who is he?"

Nova stared at it.

"I don't know," she whispered. "But I think… I loved him."