Lily Hawthorne’s mornings were always the same. The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled her small apartment above the bookshop, mingling with the faint vanilla-scented candles she kept burning at all hours. She’d glance out her window, watching Fairbrook’s quiet cobblestone streets come alive with the early risers—shopkeepers setting up their displays, elderly neighbors exchanging gossip, and children chasing one another on their way to school.

It was comforting, the predictability of it all.

But that morning, something disrupted her perfect routine.

As she pulled open the door to grab the newspaper and mail, her fingers brushed against something unusual—an envelope, thick and textured, sealed with a wax stamp.

Her name was written in delicate, looping cursive.

Lily Hawthorne.

A small frown creased her brow. There was no return address. No postage stamp. As if someone had hand-delivered it, slipping it onto her doorstep in the early hours of dawn.

She glanced up and down the street, but nothing seemed amiss. The town moved as it always did, unaware that, in her hands, Lily held something that would change everything.

Stepping inside, she locked the door behind her and carried the envelope to the front counter of her bookshop. The world outside faded as she carefully broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment inside. The ink was slightly smudged, as though the writer had hesitated or rewritten the words several times.

Her pulse quickened as she began to read.

My Dearest Lily,

You don’t know me yet, but I know you. I have known you in ways that words fail to describe. Every moment, every dream, every heartbeat—it has always led me to you.

I have watched you from a distance, not in the way that frightens, but in the way that longs. In the way that aches.

But the cruelest part?

You will never remember me.

Still, I will write to you. Even if the ink fades, even if the words disappear with time.

Because love is never truly lost.

Forever Yours,

James

A shiver ran down her spine.

Lily reread the letter, her fingers tightening around the edges.

James.

The name wasn’t familiar.

Her immediate instinct was that this had to be a mistake. A lost love letter meant for someone else, mistakenly delivered to her. But the way her name was written, the way the words flowed with such quiet sorrow—it felt intentional.

It felt personal.

She turned the envelope over, looking for any clues about where it had come from. There were no markings, no indication of who had sent it or why. The handwriting was beautiful but carried a slight tremor, as if the writer had hesitated with each stroke.

Her heart pounded as she tried to make sense of it.

She should throw it away. Forget about it.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she folded the letter carefully, pressing it to her palm as if she could absorb its meaning.

For the rest of the day, she couldn’t focus. She drifted through her routine, helping customers, restocking shelves, but her mind kept circling back to the letter. The words clung to her, whispering in the back of her thoughts like a forgotten melody.

But the cruelest part? You will never remember me.

Why did that line unsettle her the most?

That night, as she lay in bed, the letter sat on her nightstand, illuminated by the soft glow of her bedside lamp. She stared at it for a long time before sleep finally claimed her.

Lily awoke to the sound of rustling paper.

Her breath caught. The room was dark, save for the faint silver glow of the moon outside her window.

She sat up, heart hammering. The letter—still on the nightstand—had been moved. It lay slightly askew, as if someone had touched it.

A trick of the wind? A restless movement in her sleep?

She reached for it, her fingers brushing over the parchment, and for a fleeting moment, she swore she felt warmth—like someone else’s touch lingering just beneath her own.

A whisper, so faint she almost didn’t hear it, drifted through the room.

"Lily..."

Her breath hitched.

The darkness pressed in, heavy and expectant.

She wasn’t alone.

And deep down, she knew—this was only the beginning.

Lily woke up to the sound of rain pattering softly against her window. The morning light was dull, the sky overcast with heavy clouds that cast a shadow over Fairbrook. She lay in bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts tangled in the same loop as the night before.

The letter.

It sat on her nightstand, undisturbed, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. That whisper—she had heard it. Or had she imagined it?

A chill crawled down her spine as she reached for the parchment, her fingers hesitating just before they made contact. The paper felt cool against her skin, just as it had the day before.

Her logical mind told her it was nothing more than a strange, misplaced love letter. But something deeper, something she couldn’t explain, told her it was more than that.

She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to move. Dwelling on a mysterious letter wouldn’t open the bookshop or pay her bills. She had work to do.

The rain had slowed by the time she arrived at Hawthorne & Co., her small, cozy bookshop nestled between a bakery and an antique store. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and old paper greeted her as she unlocked the doors and stepped inside.

Despite its charm, the shop was quiet most mornings, especially on rainy days. She welcomed the solitude, though today, it felt heavier.

Lily busied herself behind the counter, arranging a new display of classic romance novels, but her thoughts kept drifting. What had the letter meant? Why had it been addressed to her? And why did the name James stir something unnameable in her chest?

The bell above the door jingled, snapping her from her thoughts.

She turned, expecting to see one of the regulars, but the man standing in the doorway wasn’t familiar.

Tall, dressed in a dark coat that clung to his broad frame, he hesitated just inside the entrance. A moment passed before he slowly lowered the hood of his coat, revealing tousled dark hair damp from the rain. His sharp features were almost too striking, with deep-set eyes that held an unreadable intensity.

Lily’s breath caught.

There was something about him.

Something unsettlingly familiar.

She swallowed, pushing down the strange unease curling in her stomach. “Good morning. Can I help you find something?”

The man’s gaze flickered around the shop before settling on her. His eyes—dark, but not quite black—held something she couldn’t place.

“I was just passing through,” he said, his voice smooth but distant. “Didn’t expect to find a place like this.”

Lily offered a polite smile, though her hands tightened slightly on the counter. “Fairbrook doesn’t get many travelers.”

“No,” he agreed, stepping further inside. His fingers traced the spines of the books absentmindedly as he moved through the aisles. “It’s a quiet town.”

Something about the way he said it made a shiver dance along her skin.

She studied him as he walked, noting the way he moved—graceful, precise, as if he were aware of every step he took.

His presence filled the space in a way that unsettled her.

“Are you looking for anything specific?” she asked, trying to shake the strange tension lingering between them.

He hesitated before glancing at her over his shoulder. “Do you believe in fate, Miss Hawthorne?”

The question caught her off guard.

Her pulse quickened.

“How do you know my name?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

For the briefest moment, something flickered across his expression—something sad, something knowing.

“It’s on the sign outside,” he said simply, nodding toward the shop’s front window.

Lily exhaled, her shoulders relaxing slightly. Of course. She was being ridiculous.

Still, something about this man put her on edge.

She forced a small laugh. “I suppose that makes sense. And to answer your question… I don’t know. I think some things happen for a reason, but fate? That’s a little harder to believe in.”

The man nodded slowly, as if considering her answer. “Some people think fate isn’t about choice,” he said. “That it’s something already written. Unchangeable.”

His gaze met hers then, steady and searching.

Lily’s fingers curled around the edge of the counter. “And what do you think?”

He was silent for a long moment before he said, “I think some things are worth defying fate for.”

Her breath caught.

There was something in his voice—a quiet weight, an almost unbearable longing—that sent a shiver down her spine.

For a moment, the shop seemed too quiet. The air too thick.

The man exhaled and stepped back. “I should go.”

Lily blinked, the strange spell breaking. “Oh… well, if you ever need a book, we’re open every day.”

He nodded but didn’t move right away.

Then, just as he turned toward the door, he said, “Be careful, Lily.”

Her stomach twisted.

Before she could respond, the bell chimed, and he was gone.

She stood frozen behind the counter, her heart hammering in her chest.

How had he known her first name?

Her last name was on the sign, yes—but not her first.

Lily glanced at the door, a gnawing unease settling in her gut.

Who was he?

And why did she feel like she had met him before?

That night, the storm returned. Rain lashed against her window, the wind howling through the streets like a restless ghost.

Lily sat at her desk, staring at the letter.

Her fingers traced the name at the bottom.

James.

A name that meant nothing to her.

And yet, it made something deep inside her ache.

She reached for a blank sheet of paper, hesitating only a moment before writing a single line.

Who are you?

Then, carefully, she folded the note, placed it in an envelope, and set it on the windowsill.

For reasons she couldn’t explain, she had the strangest feeling that—by morning—she would have an answer.

The storm raged through the night, rattling Lily’s windows and shaking the very foundations of her quiet world. Yet, despite the howling wind, despite the unease curling in her stomach, she fell into a restless sleep, the letter still pressed between her fingers.

She didn’t remember dreaming.

But she remembered the voice.

"Lily..."

Soft, aching, familiar in a way that made her chest tighten.

"You have to remember."

Her eyes snapped open.

For a moment, she stayed completely still, her breath uneven, the darkness of her room stretching endlessly around her.

Then, slowly, she turned her head toward the window.

The envelope was gone.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Lily sat up abruptly, shoving the blankets aside as she moved toward the windowsill. The paper—her note—was no longer where she had left it. The latch on the window remained closed, the glass fogged from the cold night air.

She swallowed hard.

Had she imagined leaving it there?

No. She had written it. She had placed it there with her own hands.

And now, it was gone.

A tremor ran through her fingers as she backed away from the window.

A prank. It had to be a prank.

But then she saw it.

A new envelope.

Sitting neatly on her nightstand.

Her stomach twisted into knots.

It hadn’t been there before.

Lily’s breathing turned shallow as she reached out, hesitating before her fingers brushed against the thick parchment. Her entire body tensed at the sensation—it was warm. As if someone had just placed it there moments ago.

A sickening chill ran down her spine.

With unsteady hands, she broke the wax seal.

Lily,

You asked who I am.

I wish I could tell you.

I wish I could hold your face in my hands and remind you of everything you’ve forgotten. I wish I could say your name the way I used to, whisper it into your skin, remind you that once—long ago—you loved me.

But time is cruel.

And it has taken me from you.

Yet, even now, across the distance of something I cannot explain, I still find my way back to you.

But you are in danger, Lily.

You must not look for me.

No matter how much you want to.

No matter how much your heart tells you to.

Because if you do, they will find you.

And they will take you away from me.

Forever.

James

Lily’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as she stared at the letter.

Her mind screamed at her to rationalize it—to find some explanation.

But there was none.

The letter had appeared out of nowhere.

And worse…

She wasn’t afraid of what it said.

She was afraid of the way it made her feel.

A deep, aching grief settled in her chest, one that had no explanation, no memories to match it.

"Once—long ago—you loved me."

The words shouldn’t mean anything.

But they did.

A sharp knock at her door made her jump.

Lily’s head snapped up, her heart pounding violently in her chest.

It was past midnight.

No one should be here.

The knock came again, firmer this time.

Swallowing hard, she placed the letter down and moved toward the door, every instinct screaming at her to stay still, to pretend she wasn’t home.

But something pulled her forward.

She pressed her eye against the peephole.

A shadowed figure stood outside, their face hidden by the dim hallway lighting.

A man.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dressed in dark clothing.

Lily’s stomach twisted.

A deep, unshakable feeling told her that whoever was on the other side of the door… they weren’t here by accident.

And they weren’t a friend.

The air in her apartment felt heavier, suffocating.

Slowly, carefully, she stepped back, her fingers pressing lightly against the doorknob—

Another knock.

Louder.

More impatient.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

Then, the voice came.

Deep. Measured. Familiar in a way she didn’t understand.

“Lily.”

She froze.

Her entire body went cold.

Whoever was standing outside her door knew her name.

And somehow, she knew—

This was only the beginning.