Chapter 1

The night was draped in a silver mist, the streetlamps casting their dim glow upon the cobblestone pavement. He walked briskly, his hands deep in his coat pockets, his thoughts adrift in the echoes of a past he could not recall. Letters—dozens of them—had arrived at his door, each penned in the same delicate handwriting, each bearing the weight of an emotion he did not understand. Tonight, the final letter awaited him. Alexander Moreau had never known her, or so he believed. His life was a stream of fleeting romances, of faces that blurred into anonymity. Yet, this woman, this stranger, claimed to have loved him from the moment she was thirteen. She had loved him through every season of her life, from the wide-eyed innocence of youth to the weary sorrow of a woman who had given everything. She had loved him in silence, in devotion, in tragedy. And he had never known. The letter trembled in his grasp as he stepped into the candlelit confines of his study. The words were desperate, final—a confession of a life lived entirely for him, yet without him. She had borne his child, had watched him from the shadows as he moved through the world, oblivious to her existence. She had never spoken, never reached out, for fear of shattering the illusion of love she had so carefully preserved. Now, she had lost everything, and the last of her breath was spent on this letter. Regret curled in his chest like a slow-burning flame. How many moments had he missed? How many glances had he failed to return? He had spent a lifetime in pursuit of passion, yet here was a love so absolute, so unwavering, that it had eclipsed even the need for recognition. And now, it was too late. The candle flickered. A cold gust of wind rattled the windowpane. He set the letter down with shaking hands and reached for his coat. He had to find her. He had to know if, by some miracle, it was not too late. The streets were quiet, the city slumbering beneath the watchful gaze of the moon. He ran, fueled by a desperation he had never known. But as he reached her door, the air hung heavy with silence. A single candle burned in the window, its flame dancing as if in farewell. Love had waited. Love had endured. But love had also perished, unspoken and unseen, slipping away like a whisper into the night.