The poetry reading ended in great success.

They took the same carriage back toward Braid Hills.
Still caught up in excitement, they chatted nonstop—so much that they didn’t even notice when the carriage passed through the front gate.

Mia found herself truly wanting one of those tokens.

Clive said that if anyone ever decided to transfer theirs, he’d make sure she was the first to know.

“I think Jamie’s considering it. He mentioned that he’ll be starting high school this fall, so it’ll be hard for him to keep attending the readings regularly.”

“Thank you for thinking of me, Young Mast—”

“Clive,” he reminded her gently. “You promised you’d call me that.”

“Ah. Right… Thank you, Clive.”

They asked the driver to let them off at the edge of the lawn, where the grassy slope began—they wanted to walk a little.

A full moon hung bright and round in the night sky.

As the quiet of the evening cooled the lingering excitement, the air between them grew thoughtful, almost solemn.

Clive spoke first, carefully.

“By the way… I had no idea you’d been through something like that, Mia.”

“Ah.”

“You’ve always been so bright, so cheerful… I’m sorry for your loss.
It’s late, but please accept my condolences. I’m sure your father’s in a good place now.”

“I think so too. Thank you.”

To show she was all right, Mia swung her arms as she walked, exaggerating the motion just a little.

“Actually, my father was a quiet, introverted man. He had a hard time adjusting to the rough atmosphere at the factory.
So when the police told us he’d led the evacuation and saved so many people, my mother and I were completely shocked.”

“……”

“When you think about it, his life must’ve been hanging by a thread.
I still wonder how he found that kind of courage.
Sometimes I try to imagine it—flames closing in, knowing that if you don’t escape now, you’ll die…
Could I have done what he did? Could I really have saved others first?”

A brief silence followed.
Only the soft rustle of grass beneath their feet broke the quiet.

Mia gave a small, awkward smile.
“Sorry. That got a bit heavy.”

“No… no, it’s fine. Thank you for telling me, Mia. I—”

Clive hesitated.
A sudden urge rose within him—to share the secret he had kept to himself for over a year.

It was something so precious that even revisiting it in his own mind felt delicate, almost forbidden.
He had never once thought of telling anyone—not even his family.

Yet in this moment, he felt that speaking of her—that memory—wouldn’t tarnish it.
Perhaps it had been decided from the very beginning,
ever since he’d heard Mia’s voice reciting The Swan beneath the cherry and oak trees that day.

Why does it feel so much like fate…?

Mia Green becoming Rio’s tutor had felt perfectly, inexplicably right—
as though the tram he’d been waiting for had arrived the very instant he reached the stop.

He had been standing for so long at the station of grief,
waiting for someone—anyone—who could take him somewhere else.

“I… have someone I love.”

Clive’s steps slowed… then stopped altogether.

Mia had walked a few paces ahead before realizing and turned back to look at him.

His milk-chocolate hair caught the moonlight, his amber eyes glowing softly in the dark.

She looked nothing like her—the woman with jet-black hair and eyes—
yet Clive, as though surrendering to fate itself, couldn’t help but think of her.

“She loved poetry too,” he said quietly.
“She’d memorized almost every one of Henry Milton’s sonnets.
So when you read The Navel of Summer, I was reminded of her.”

“I remember. That was the first day we met, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. That day.”

Mia remembered it vividly as well—
the day she had taken Rio outside for the first time, pushing his wheelchair beneath the sunlight.

She smiled softly at the memory,
and saw that Clive’s expression, too, had melted into something gentle, like the shimmer of heat on a spring afternoon.

“We grew closer through letters,” he continued quietly.
“Writing back and forth, we came to care for each other.”

“Ah, like pen pals?”

“Not exactly. At first, we barely knew what the other looked like.
In fact, we didn’t even know each other’s addresses—
so we used the Greenbird Bookshop as our postbox.”

“Wow, that’s so romantic!
But now you both know each other’s faces, right?
And… this is a secret from Mrs. Sienna, I assume?
Are you two going to get married?”

Mia was a little giddy, swept up in the unexpected romance that had suddenly unfolded before her.

There was something secretive in Clive’s voice—
a whisper that carried the faint scent of confession.

Mia wasn’t entirely sure why he had suddenly chosen to tell her all this,
yet somehow, she felt she understood.

But then, his next words changed everything.

“We were going to get married.”

Past tense.

Mia was not someone who confused tenses—
and she could tell from his tone that Clive didn’t either.

“She left me,” he said quietly.

“Ah… I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be. It’s not your fault, Mia.
It was probably mine—for not being enough.”

“……”

“When we exchanged letters,” he went on,
“it felt like our souls were connected.
No matter where we were, I was never afraid.
But then… she just vanished.
She literally disappeared, as if she’d evaporated into thin air, and—”

“Once she was gone, I realized how fragile our connection really was.”

“Um… when you say ‘gone,’ you mean—?”

“One day, her letters just stopped coming.
And with what little I’d learned about her, I couldn’t find her again.
My guess is… she must’ve used a false name.”

“A pseudonym?”

Clive gave a small, helpless nod.
“Her name was Sally.”

“…That’s a pretty common name,” Mia murmured.

She could think of at least three ‘Sallys’ she knew—
a friend from Hailey Village,
the heroine of her sister’s novel,
and the author of The Earl Honey’s Love Letters.

“It’s a finished story now,” Clive said softly, “but I wanted you to know.”

He watched her expression carefully, gauging her reaction.
Part of him worried, belatedly, that she might feel burdened by his confession.
But just this once, he wanted to think only of himself—
to finally give voice to the memory that had weighed on him for so long.

And as he did, Clive realized something.
He was still standing in the shadow of that farewell.
He had told himself that more than a year’s time had dulled the pain—
but no, he had merely sealed it away and turned his eyes elsewhere.

Then Mia spoke, her voice quiet and gentle,
like a summer breeze brushing through green leaves.

“Do you still love her?”

“I love her.”

The answer came without a moment’s hesitation—
and with it, the dam holding back his tears broke.

Clive didn’t even realize the tears were streaming down his cheeks
until Mia, flustered, offered him her handkerchief.
Only then did he become aware that he was crying.

“I miss her so much…” he whispered,
his voice fragile and torn, like wet paper ready to fall apart.

What began as a few drops soon became a flood.
His light green eyes darkened until they looked nearly black.
His lips trembled, his chin quivered,
his shoulders shook uncontrollably.

It was like a sudden avalanche breaking through a door—
a surge of feeling so immense he could no longer withstand it.
And so he let it crush him, surrendering without resistance,
murmuring like a man half out of his mind, stripped bare of will.

“What did I do wrong?
If I only knew the reason, it wouldn’t hurt this much.
It wouldn’t…
But I don’t hate her. I don’t resent her.
I just hope she’s happy somewhere… that’s all I want.”

“…Clive.”

“Even if I’m not by her side, that’s fine.
Even if I spend the rest of my life missing her, that’s fine too.
But if—if she’s really gone, if she’s dead…
then I… I don’t think I could go on living…”

“Clive.”

Mia reached out and clasped his trembling hand around the handkerchief—
boldly, without hesitation.

Even in a moment like this, if one were to fuss over who was the man, who was the woman,
who was noble and who was common—then who would be left to comfort this poor soul?

“I’m s-sorry, Mia. I can’t… I can’t stop crying—”

“It’s all right. You can cry.”

“Ugh…”

“But… if we stay out here too long, your family might start to worry.
Shall we walk a little while and keep talking?”

Clive nodded, like a child.

Mia smiled softly.
“Good. Come on, student Clive. Let’s go home with your teacher.
We’ll have a cup of warm milk, wash your face with cool water, and get a good night’s sleep.”

Because Clive was still shaking so badly, Mia held his hand tightly.
Then, gently—like soothing a child—she swayed their joined hands as they began to walk again.

Neither of them knew that not far away,
Oscar was watching them.