It happened on an ordinary afternoon.
Raine had long since stopped expecting Celeste to walk through the bookstore doors. She had convinced herself to move on, to let go of the unanswered questions.
And then, she heard the name.
"…Celeste Laurent."
She froze.
A customer was standing at the counter, speaking with a soft voice. The words barely registered before Raine's mind latched onto that one, familiar name.
Celeste.
She turned sharply. "What did you just say?"
The woman blinked, taken aback. "Oh, I was just mentioning a musician… Celeste Laurent. I read about her recently."
Raine's stomach twisted. "Read what?"
The woman hesitated, as if sensing the shift in Raine's expression. "You… didn't hear?"
A cold weight settled in her chest.
"Hear what?"
A pause.
Then, softly—
"She passed away."
Raine's breath caught.
The bookstore blurred. The sounds around her faded.
"No." The word left her lips before she could stop it. "That's not—" She swallowed hard. "That can't be right."
The woman frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm sorry. I just thought you knew."
Raine couldn't breathe.
Celeste… dead?
No.
No, it wasn't possible.
She was just here. She was just in this bookstore, flipping through pages, brushing fingertips against book spines, humming soft melodies under her breath.
She was just here.
Wasn't she?
Raine didn't realize she was shaking until she gripped the counter to steady herself.
"Are you okay?" the woman asked gently.
No.
She wasn't.
But she didn't say that.
Instead, she managed a weak nod and forced herself to finish the transaction, barely aware of what she was doing.
When the customer left, the silence pressed in.
Celeste was gone.
Just like that.
She hadn't just disappeared. She hadn't just left.
She had died.
And Raine hadn't known.
Her fingers curled into fists.
Celeste had never said anything. Never hinted at anything being wrong.
She had been so distant, so unreachable.
And now, she was lost forever.
Raine felt the weight of it settle in—a grief so heavy, it left her breathless.
She needed to know more.
She had to.
Fumbling for her phone, she searched Celeste's name, her hands unsteady.
And there it was.
A quiet obituary.
No grand announcement. No headlines.
Just a simple notice.
Celeste Laurent, 28, passed away peacefully after a long illness.
A long illness.
Raine's heart clenched.
She had been sick.
All this time, she had been sick.
And she had never said a word.
Raine stared at the screen, the words blurring.
She had been right—Celeste's disappearance had felt final because it was.
Because Celeste had known it was coming.
And yet, she had never let Raine in.
Never let her see the truth.
Never given her a chance to say goodbye.
A strangled sound escaped Raine's throat.
She thought back to all the times Celeste had brushed off her concern. The way she had kept her distance, the way she had refused to let Raine get too close.
Was this why?
Had she been trying to protect her?
Had she thought it would be easier this way?
If so…
She was wrong.
Because this—this hollow, aching grief—was unbearable.
A melody unfinished.
A love never spoken.
And now, it was too late.