Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 123: One Room, Two Lives

Chapter 123: One Room, Two Lives

The car rolled down the dirt road in silence, tires crunching over gravel like it didn’t want to leave either.

"Billy leaned against the window, watching the village dissolve—the rusted gate, the winding path, the house where everything had changed."

He didn’t cry.

But his chest ached with the heaviness of something unfinished.

His hand rested on the door handle, fingers twitching now and then, like they hadn’t yet accepted that they’d let go of something they weren’t ready to lose.

From the front seat, his mother glanced back.

She didn’t speak.

Not yet.

She just looked at him—long enough to see the weight he carried, but not long enough to press it.

Mr. Frank kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. The radio stayed off. Even the breeze felt careful, like it knew better than to speak.

Minutes passed before Billy’s mother reached for a water bottle and offered it over the seat. Her hand lingered in the air.

He didn’t take it.

Not out of anger. Just... not ready.

She pulled it back quietly and placed it beside her.

"You don’t have to talk," she said gently. "Not until you’re ready."

Billy nodded faintly, still watching the trees blur past.

Another stretch of silence.

"He matters to you," she added, barely above a whisper.

Billy blinked, eyes burning.

"He’s the first thing that felt... real," he murmured. "Even when I didn’t know my own name."

She turned slightly in her seat, hand resting over her chest.

"I could see it in your face. The way you looked back."

He didn’t answer.

Just leaned deeper into the glass, watching the sky break open between the branches.

"You were always someone who loved deeply," she said after a moment. "Even before all this. When you gave your heart to someone, it was never halfway."

Billy let his eyes close.

One breath.

Then another.

"I don’t know how to be both people," he whispered. "Leo and Billy. They don’t feel the same."

His mother’s voice softened.

"Maybe you’re not supposed to be the same. Maybe you’re becoming someone new."

(She paused.)

"Someone who gets to choose this time."

That silence returned. Thicker now.

But warmer.

Billy opened his eyes and finally took the water bottle from beside her. He didn’t drink it, just held it in his lap—like a small offering of peace.

And outside, the road curved gently into the unknown.

BACK IN THE HOUSE

The house felt colder now. Not from the wind, or the shifting weather — but from the absence.

The door had closed.

The car had gone.

And what remained was the echo.

A sliver of gold light moved slowly across the floor, but Artur didn’t stir. He sat there, wrapped in stillness, like the world had paused with him.

His eyes were open — but they didn’t look at anything. They simply stared into the floorboards, red-rimmed and hollow.

Mark stood nearby, not far from the hallway. His arms were crossed, but not defensively — more like someone holding himself together.

He shifted his weight, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

The silence stretched too long.

"Should I talk to him?" he asked finally, glancing toward Mr. Dand.

The old man didn’t look up right away. He was by the kitchen counter, slowly pouring warm water into two cups, even though he knew no one would drink them.

"Not now," Mr. Dand said softly, his voice like worn fabric. "Let the grief speak first. Words won’t reach him yet."

Mark exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He stepped closer, pausing just a few feet away from Artur’s quiet figure on the floor.

"He hasn’t cried like that since your wife passed," he said.

Mr. Dand nodded once.

"And when she passed, I didn’t speak either. I just sat beside her garden for hours. Sometimes... there’s nothing to say that doesn’t make it worse."

Mark looked down at Artur again. The way his back curved slightly inward, like he was trying to make himself smaller. The way he didn’t move when the light outside began to shift — gold to gray.

"He’s blaming himself," Mark said quietly.

Mr. Dand finally turned to face him.

"He loved someone, and they left. That kind of pain doesn’t know logic. It just needs time to break through."

Mark knelt down slowly, placing a folded blanket on the edge of the couch, just within Artur’s reach — but didn’t offer it directly.

"I’ll be outside," he said, standing again.

Mr. Dand gave a faint nod.

They both left the room — not far, just enough to give space. And in that quiet, Artur stayed where he was.

The soft ticking of the wall clock filled the silence now.

A bird called faintly from outside. Somewhere down the path, the sound of a distant gate creaked in the wind.

Artur didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

But when no one was watching, his hand slowly reached for the blanket Mark had left behind.

He pulled the blanket close, like it might hold the pieces together.

And finally let the silence hold him.

AND BACK IN THE CITY, THE— EVENING

The car pulled through the security gate, tires gliding smoothly over polished stone.

Tall buildings lined the horizon, their glass windows catching the soft glow of the setting sun.

"Everything gleamed—the windows, the walls, even the smiles—but it all felt like a showroom. Perfect, lifeless, waiting to be claimed by someone else."

He sat in the backseat, eyes unmoving, head resting against the glass. Not a word had been spoken since they left the village behind.

The city was louder, but the noise didn’t reach him.

Not really.

As the car came to a slow stop beneath the covered drive, the front door to the house opened.

A girl stepped out — early twenties, stylish coat half-buttoned, hair pulled into a loose bun.

She froze the moment she saw him.

"Leo?"

Billy blinked slowly.

Her eyes shimmered, and she stepped forward in small, careful steps, like she wasn’t sure if this was real.

"Oh my God... you’re really here."

She rushed forward — and before Billy could process it, her arms were around him, warm and trembling.

His breath caught in his throat. He didn’t move at first. Her perfume was familiar. Her voice even more so.

"I missed you so much," she whispered. "I thought we’d lost you forever..."

Billy slowly raised a hand to her back, but it hovered there — suspended, unsure.

"You’re... Camila," he said quietly, not a question, but almost.

She pulled back just enough to see his face. Her eyes scanned him like she was memorizing every piece.

"It’s okay," she said gently. " let’s get inside ."

"I’m just glad you’re home."

Billy offered a faint, uncertain smile.

His mother touched his shoulder, and they began walking inside — past tall glass doors, marble floors, quiet elegance. Everything clean, everything still in its place.

But none of it felt lived-in.

Billy glanced around. Family portraits on the wall. Framed awards. A photo of him in a suit — standing beside a woman he didn’t recognize.

It looked like his life. But felt like a stranger’s reflection.

"We set up your old room," his mother said as they reached the staircase. "Everything’s still there. Take your time. No pressure."

Billy nodded once.

He didn’t speak.

As they climbed the stairs, each step echoed behind him.

Camila walked beside him, glancing over as if wanting to say something more — but didn’t.

At the top, the hallway stretched out in quiet symmetry. Soft lights glowed along the ceiling. He passed by a room with its door cracked open — a music room maybe, full of instruments.

He paused.

"Did I play piano?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His mother turned from a few steps ahead, surprised.

"Yes... since you were young."

"You used to sit here, humming under your breath while you tuned the guitar. You’d get so frustrated when it was off-key, but you kept trying."

Billy looked into the room again, expression unreadable.

"Feels like someone else’s memory."

She said nothing. Just waited _like the room itself holding it’s breath

He stepped into his room — everything untouched.

Books. Trophies. A large bed with dark navy sheets. His clothes still folded in drawers. A backpack hanging off the desk chair.

He walked to the window and opened it, letting in the cool evening air.

City lights blinked in the distance — glowing softly, like stars pretending to be home.

He leaned on the frame, gaze distant.

The village was silent now.

But it was where he’d left something behind.

Something real.

The room had a stillness to it — like it had been waiting all this time.

Billy sat on the edge of the bed, fingertips tracing a faint scratch on the nightstand. The city buzzed faintly outside, but in here, the air felt heavier. Slower.

A quiet knock at the door broke through.

He didn’t look up.

"Yeah?" he said, just loud enough.

The door creaked open.

His sister stepped in, barefoot, holding two mugs. Her hair was loose now, falling gently over her shoulders. No makeup. Just soft features, and the same uncertain hope still clinging to her eyes.

"Thought you might want something warm," she said, holding one of the mugs up. "Chamomile... I think. Unless your taste’s changed."

Billy looked at it for a beat, then took it carefully.

"Thanks."

She sat down at the foot of the bed, a little distance between them.

They both sipped in silence for a few moments.

"This used to be your favorite place in the whole house," she said, glancing around. "You’d come here when things got too loud downstairs. Or when you wanted to write music."

Billy gave a small nod, eyes fixed on a guitar propped up in the corner.

"I don’t remember ever playing."

She smiled gently. "You did. Badly at first. Then obsessively."

A quiet beat passed between them.

"You don’t have to force anything," she added. "I know everyone’s expecting you to just... slip back into your life like it still fits. But it’s okay if it doesn’t."

Billy lowered his cup slightly, eyes finally meeting hers.

"I’m trying," he said. "But it feels like I walked into someone else’s memory."

She looked down at her mug, nodding slowly.

"That memory was a good guy. A little stubborn. A little dramatic. But he loved hard. And he loved us."

Billy’s chest tightened, but he didn’t let it show.

She looked back at him, voice softening.

"Can I ask something?"

He nodded.

"Is it better there?"

Her voice was quiet. "In the village?"

Billy didn’t answer right away.

He just looked out the window again — city lights flickering, sharp and distant.

"It’s... quieter there," he said. "And the air doesn’t lie."

She took a slow breath, then nodded.

"Then I hope whoever you are now... finds peace in both places."

She stood, brushing her fingers along the edge of the door as she walked out.

"Goodnight, Leo... or Billy. Or whatever name feels like home."

The door clicked softly behind her.

"Billy sat there, staring at the guitar. His fingers twitched once—then stilled.

Dust gathered quietly on the strings.

The city hummed outside. But inside, silence lingered like a held breath."

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