touchnovel Chapter 36: What Was Left Behind, II
Chapter 36: What Was Left Behind, II
Chapter 36 - What Was Left Behind, IIShe turned fully when I stepped forward. Her eyes met mine—and this time, she didn't look away. Not right away. Not like a stranger.
"Hello," I said.
Her eyes landed on me, and I felt that some 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 come from Berlin."
Her posture didn't change, but something behind her gaze shifted.
"I'm looking for someone named 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 something unspoken.
I stepped closer. "You don't know me," I said. "But I've seen your name before. I—"
I stopped. There was no way to explain without sounding mad.
"I've had dreams," I said instead.
She looked at me 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. "Sometimes 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 moments—small, impossible moments—when she would look toward something 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 come 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 re
I sat with the book open, unmoving, as the candle on the desk trembled under its own flame. The stillness of the room felt too deliberate—like something was holding its breath.
I thought about the bench. The moss. The way Clara had looked at me when I said her name. 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 me like you remembered.
The words felt strange as I wrote them. Not an accusation. Not a statement.
Just proof that something had passed between us.
Something that didn't belong to this life.