Chapter 2 - 24 Hours Earlier

Chapter 2: 24 Hours Earlier

The world blinked.

One moment, Julian stood in his apartment holding the old phone. The next, he was in the bar—yesterday’s bar. Same dim lights, same sour sting of spilled beer in the air, same chalkboard that still said “Julian Grey – 9:30 PM.”

But it wasn’t raining yet.

Time hadn’t caught up.

He staggered back a step, nearly knocking into a stool. His breath came shallow and quick, like he’d surfaced too fast from something deep. The warmth of the air felt wrong—too familiar. The world had reset, and everything was in its place.

“Yo, Grey. You okay?”

It was Miles, the sound guy. Same tired flannel, same roll of tape around his wrist like always. Same as last night—or, what would’ve been tonight.

Julian blinked. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Just… déjà vu.”

He ran a hand over his face, fingers brushing the faint stubble on his jaw. The clock above the bar said 6:17 p.m. Three hours before the set. Three hours before she walked in and everything cracked open.

He had time.

Back at his apartment, the lights buzzed faintly. Julian stood in front of his closet for too long, staring at the mess of jackets, shirts, and forgotten ambitions. It felt absurd, trying to dress for fate.

What had he worn that night? A denim jacket? No, too stiff. He pulled it out anyway, held it up. The elbow was frayed—she used to tease him about that. He tossed it aside.

He settled on a plain grey hoodie and black jeans. Clean. Comfortable. Something that didn’t look like trying.

In the mirror, he looked the same—but the eyes were different. Sharper. Like they were searching for proof that this was real.

He ran water over his hands. They were still trembling.

He sat at the piano without turning on the lights. The room was washed in the soft blue of dusk. He played the opening bars of their song—slow, hesitant, almost reverent.

Each note landed like a breath held too long.

He was trying to remember what it used to sound like—before the silence, before the break. What did she hear in it? Did she still?

But the keys didn’t answer. The room held its breath.

By 8:30, he was back at the bar. The coffee in his hands had gone cold, but he still sipped it like it meant something. He sat by the window, watching rainless clouds roll like slow thoughts across the sky.

Every second felt delicate. Like if he breathed too hard, the illusion would fracture.

He greeted familiar faces. Laughed too quickly. Checked the door every few minutes.

And then—

At 9:12, she walked in.

Siena.

Same coat. Same tired grace. As if nothing had changed. As if everything had.

Julian sat up straighter.

Their eyes met across the space—brief, electric. Not quite recognition. Not quite distance.

She moved toward the same corner near the back, half-shielded by the curtain of light. The same place where she had stood last time. The universe, it seemed, still followed a script.

But this time, Julian was the one improvising.

He stepped up to the mic as the lights dimmed, fingers grazing the strings.

“Hey,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “I wrote this one a while ago. For someone I once called home.”

He didn’t shake. He didn’t falter.

But his voice trembled, just a little, on the line she used to sing under her breath.

When the final chord rang out, he looked up.

She was gone.

And the rain had just begun to fall.