God's Blessing is a Curse Chapter 36: What Was Left Behind, II

She turned fully when I stepped forward. Her eyes t mine—and this ti, she didn't look away. Not right away. Not like a stranger.

"Hello," I said.

Her eyes landed on , and I felt that so pulled—like a thread had been drawn tight between us.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

I nodded once, then hesitated. "I think so. I'm... Matthias Reiter. I've co from Berlin."

Her posture didn't change, but sothing behind her gaze shifted.

"I'm looking for soone nad Clara Weiss."

She gave a small, cautious smile. "You've found her."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was expectant. Not empty, but full of sothing unspoken.

I stepped closer. "You don't know ," I said. "But I've seen your na before. I—"

I stopped. There was no way to explain without sounding mad.

"I've had dreams," I said instead.

She looked at carefully. Not disturbed. Not intrigued. Just... listening.

"What kind of dreams?"

"Ones I didn't understand."

She blinked, caught off guard—but not confused. "Dreams can be strange," she said quietly. "Sotis they feel more real than waking up."

We walked. Not far—just a slow loop around the outer edge of the orchard. The ground was soft beneath our steps. Dry leaves clung to the roots.

She spoke little. So did I. But there were monts—small, impossible monts—when she would look toward sothing before I did. When I would ask a question she had just begun to answer.

We stopped near a bench, half-eaten by moss. She dusted it with her sleeve and sat.

I remained standing.

"Do you co out here often?" I asked.

"When I can. The children aren't always easy."

"You work with the children here?"

"When I can," she said. "My father says it's good for the soul."

I paused. "He's a physician, isn't her?"

Her eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in recognition.

"Yes. You've done your research."

"Only a little. I heard his na in Berlin. Soone ntioned he'd moved here."

She tilted her head slightly. "You co all this way for that?"

"No," I said.

I didn't elaborate.

The wind shifted. A thread of pine needles fell between us.

"You said you dread," she said softly. "Did you see ?"

I hesitated. "Not clearly. Just... a presence. A na. Yours."

She was quiet a long ti.

Then she said sothing that caught off guard.

"I passed the old clock tower yesterday," she said. "It was chiming at the wrong hour. Made feel like I'd forgotten sothing."

The breath left .

I didn't know why—but it felt familiar. Like a fragnt of sothing I'd once seen.

"Does that happen often?" I asked.

"No," she said. "Just once." She gave a faint smile. "It was probably nothing."

We sat there in silence for another minute. Then she stood.

"I should go," she said. "But I'll be here tomorrow, if the weather holds."

I nodded.

She left without another word.

***

That night, I opened my journal.

The page where I had written to her still held the sa line:

What do you rember?

The ink had faded slightly since I first wrote it, as if ti itself had tried to erase the question. But it remained unanswered. Or so I thought.

I sat with the book open, unmoving, as the candle on the desk trembled under its own fla. The stillness of the room felt too deliberate—like sothing was holding its breath.

I thought about the bench. The moss. The way Clara had looked at when I said her na. No surprise. No curiosity. Just... recognition that neither of us could explain.

The candle hissed. A drop of wax slid down the side.

I dipped the pen and touched it to the page.

You looked at like you rembered.

The words felt strange as I wrote them. Not an accusation. Not a statent.

Just proof that sothing had passed between us.

Sothing that didn't belong to this life.