They sat in silence for an hour, no words needed, no explanations.

  Just breathing, just being, with all the history between them stretching out in the air like a thick fog.

  Eventually, it was Adam who spoke first, his voice raw.

  “They said I created false memories,” he said quietly. “That I imagined you, everything between us, everything we shared.”

  Yara swallowed hard, shaking her head. “No. I never imagined you. I never forgot you.”

  “But I couldn’t let you go,” he continued, his gaze never leaving hers.

  His eyes searched her face like old maps, tracing lines he knew so well, but now, they were older, weathered by time.

  “I wrote those letters,” he admitted, his voice soft but steady. “I had to know… if you’d listen. If you’d hear me, even after everything.”

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  She let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “I didn’t listen before. I was too scared, too caught in my own fear. But I never stopped aching for you.”

  The words fell between them like fragile promises, as if they both feared breaking them.

  They sat there, neither one moving, neither one speaking.

  But the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was familiar, like a rhythm they had once known.

  And in that silence, they found each other again.

  “Maybe we aren’t ghosts after all,” Adam whispered, his voice trembling slightly.

  “Maybe we’re just unfinished stories,” Yara replied, her voice a quiet strength she hadn’t known she possessed.

  That night, for the first time in years, she slept without hearing whispers.