Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 129 - 128:The Slow Return

Chapter 129: Chapter 128:The Slow Return

The room sat in silence, lit by dust spiraling through tall windows. A worn piano rested in the corner, keys untouched. Folding chairs lined the wall, a forgotten script curled on the sill.

Folding chairs lined one wall, and a script — dog-eared and sun-faded — lay forgotten on the windowsill.

The floor creaked faintly beneath their steps.

Billy walked in slowly. Not like he belonged. Like he was afraid to disturb the air.

His hand ran across the edge of the table. The smooth wood. The faint trace of chalk on the mirror.

Camila didn’t say anything.

She just stood back. Watching.

Billy stepped toward the piano. Touched it.

Then turned slowly in the center of the room.

He stood still. Eyes closed.

Like he was waiting for something to return.

But the only thing that came...

was the echo of silence.

Billy stood near the center of the room, still and quiet, eyes tracing the faded scuff marks on the wooden floor — places where movement had once lived. Where voices rose. Where characters were born.

His fingertips brushed the edge of the piano again. He didn’t sit — just touched it.

Camila was by the window now, giving him space, her back half-turned.

Then—

A faint creak echoed from the hallway.

Footsteps.

"Studio 2?" a voice called out — casual, distracted.

The door opened.

A man stepped in, carrying a stack of papers and a coffee cup, mid-sentence.

"Hey, is someone—"

He stopped cold.

His eyes landed on Billy.

His hands froze.

The papers nearly slipped from his grip.

"Leo?"

Billy turned slowly.

They stared at each other for a second — the kind that holds everything and nothing at once.

The man blinked, then set the coffee down fast, voice cracking with emotion.

"Oh my God—Leo."

He crossed the room without hesitation and pulled Billy into a hug. A real one — arms tight, hand behind his neck like he couldn’t believe he was real.

"You’re here. You’re really—"

Billy froze, breath caught. The hug grounded him—awkward limbs finding motion as muscle memory kicked in. It didn’t feel familiar, but it felt safe.

Camila watched quietly from the window, arms crossed over her chest now, but her eyes were soft.

The man finally stepped back, breath unsteady.

"I’m sorry. I just—when you disappeared, no one knew what to think. There were so many rumors. Accidents. Burnout. You just vanished. I didn’t even know if—"

He stopped himself. Eyes glinting.

"It’s me. Henry."

Billy searched his face.

Something stirred — not a memory, but a warmth. A familiarity.

"You and I...?"

"We worked on everything together," Henry said gently. "I used to run lines with you when you didn’t trust anyone else.

We stayed up nights rewriting scenes when you didn’t like the dialogue. "You were the heartbeat here," Henry said, voice soft. "Every scene you touched—you made it feel real."

Billy’s chest tightened.

"I’m sorry. I... I don’t remember any of that."

"It’s okay," Henry said quickly. "You’re here. That’s enough."

He glanced at Camila with grateful eyes.

Then back to Billy.

"You want me to leave you two alone?"

Billy shook his head after a pause.

"No. Stay. Maybe you can help me remember."

Henry smiled, a bit teary now.

"Then let’s start slow. One scene at a time."

Henry didn’t rush. He sat on the edge of a folded chair near the piano, coffee forgotten on the floor beside him.

Camila leaned against the far wall, arms crossed loosely, watching her brother’s face with quiet patience.

Billy hadn’t said much — just stood near the window, gaze drifting between the dust-filled light and the familiar-unfamiliar room around him.

"You used to hum when you were nervous," Henry said suddenly, voice gentle. "Always the same notes. Same little tune."

Billy glanced at him.

"Did I?"

"Yeah. Drove sound crazy during rehearsals," Henry chuckled softly. "But you couldn’t stop. Like your body was trying to find rhythm when your head was somewhere else."

Billy looked toward the piano, thoughtful.

But didn’t move toward it.

"You’re different now," Henry said, not unkindly. "Still you. Just... quieter."

"Feels like I emptied out," Billy murmured. "And now I’m just watching someone else walk through my skin."

Henry nodded slowly.

"Maybe. But that’s still your skin. You get to fill it up again however you want."

The room went quiet for a beat.

Camila straightened up gently.

"We should go," she said softly. "You’ve seen enough for today."

Billy hesitated. His hand lingered on the piano, tracing the wood as if it could answer him back — a whisper of contact, like a goodbye without sound.

Then he nodded.

"Yeah. Let’s go."

Henry stood, not pushing for more.

But before they reached the door, he added:

"You know where to find me. Anytime."

Billy looked back.

"Thank you... Henry."

"You don’t have to thank me," Henry smiled. "You were the kind of friend people wait to see again. I’m just glad you’re here."

And with that, they stepped out of the room.

By the time they returned, the sky had softened into a deep lavender.

The air was cooler now, carrying a gentle breeze and the hum of distant traffic.

Streetlights flickered on above them like stars waking up one by one.

His steps slowed — not from exhaustion, but from the quiet weight of what he now carried. like the world had grown heavier in his hands and he was learning how to carry it again.

Camila walked beside him in silence, their steps in sync.

When they reached the door, Camila unlocked it quietly.

As they stepped inside, warm light spilled from the kitchen — golden and soft.

The scent of food drifted through the air: grilled vegetables, warm bread, something rich and seasoned simmering low on the stove.

Billy blinked, surprised.

Their mother stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, placing the last bowl on the table.

Her hair was tied back loosely, and there was a hint of flour on her cheek.

She turned the moment she heard the door.

"You’re back," she said, a little breathless. Her smile was tender, but her eyes scanned him with quiet urgency — as if checking he was still there, still whole.

Billy gave a small nod.

"We didn’t rush," Camila said gently, setting down her bag. "Just let the day... breathe."

Their mother came closer, hesitant at first.

Then she pulled Billy into a soft, firm hug. One hand on the back of his neck, the other around his shoulders — like she’d dreamed of this a thousand times and still couldn’t believe it.

"I thought you’d be tired. So I made everything you used to like," she whispered against his shoulder. "Or at least... what I think you liked."

Billy’s throat tightened.

"Thank you," he said, voice low.

She pulled back slightly, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing just beneath his eye like she was memorizing him again.

"Come. Eat while it’s warm."

The table was already set for three.

They sat — Camila on one side, their mother across, and Billy in the middle. Not much was said. The sounds of cutlery and soft sips of water filled the room like music.

Billy glanced down at his plate — the food was familiar even though the memory was not. But the warmth of it, the effort, the quiet presence of people who hadn’t given up on him...

It felt like something to hold onto.

And for the first time since returning to the city, he didn’t feel like a stranger at his own table.

The plates had barely been touched yet, but the warmth in the room felt like it had been simmering all day.

Billy chewed slowly, eyes lowering as he reached for a piece of roasted plantain — something he didn’t remember loving, but somehow... it tasted like comfort.

Camila tore off a piece of bread beside him, dipping it into a bowl of stew. The scent alone made Billy close his eyes for a second.

Across the table, their mother finally spoke again — her voice soft, careful.

"Tomorrow, you’re meeting with Dr. Harris."

Billy looked up, blinking.

"Dr. Harris?"

She nodded, folding her hands lightly.

"He’s a professor — works closely with memory rehabilitation. He’s been following your case. He’s the best we could find."

Billy was quiet, considering.

"I can take you there, if you want," she added gently.

Before he could answer, Camila glanced sideways.

"It’s okay. We’ll go together," she said easily. "You’ve had enough unfamiliar faces this week. Might as well take one who won’t shut up."

Billy gave the faintest smile — quick, almost shy — but it softened his whole face.

"Thanks."

"Of course," Camila said, nudging him lightly. "We’ll even stop for cinnamon lattes after."

"Two sugars," Billy said automatically — then paused, blinking.

The words had left his mouth before his mind caught up to them.

Camila and their mom both looked at him.

"That’s how you always took it," Camila said softly, her gaze steady.

Billy glanced down at his hands, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

Not quite joy.

Not quite fear.

Just... a glimmer of familiarity.

Their mother smiled — not saying anything more, but her hand reached forward, gently resting over his.

"No rush," she whispered. "Just tomorrow. That’s all we’re thinking about."

And with that, they continued the meal — slow, quiet, gentle — like people who had learned that time doesn’t guarantee healing, but presence always opens the door to it.

The plates were nearly cleared, only crumbs and half-empty glasses left behind.

The sound of forks settling onto ceramic faded into stillness.

Billy rose first — quietly, almost without thinking.

He stacked the plates, gathering them into his arms with practiced ease.

Camila looked up, half-startled.

"What are you doing?"

Billy glanced back over his shoulder.

"I’ll do the dishes."

Camila’s brows lifted. Their mother, still seated, smiled faintly and reached for her glass.

"You don’t have to, sweetheart. We have help for that."

Billy paused in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.

Something about that sentence sat strangely on his skin — not wrong, just... unfamiliar.

He gave a small nod but carried the dishes in anyway.

The sink was already spotless.

Everything here was organized, even the soap had its own crystal dispenser.

Still, he turned on the water, rinsed the plates with soft, circular motions.

His body moved with quiet rhythm, like muscle memory — not from here, but from there.

In his mind, he saw chipped ceramic, and Artur beside him, flicking water at his cheek with a smirk.

The warmth of that stone-walled kitchen had nothing to do with heat—it had to do with staying.

He felt the touch of warm water across chilled skin in a stone-walled kitchen, where laughter filled every corner.

Here, the silence was different.

Not cold.

Just... still.

Camila leaned against the doorframe now, arms folded loosely.

"You did this a lot back there?"

Billy nodded, drying a glass.

"After every meal. Every night."

She tilted her head, watching him.

"Feels strange, huh?"

He gave a quiet chuckle.

"A little. Not in a bad way. Just... different."

Camila didn’t reply right away. She just stepped forward, took a dish towel from the drawer, and began drying beside him.

"Well, lucky for you," she said lightly, "I still suck at washing. So you’re on your own."

He smiled — really smiled this time. Small, but genuine.

"Some things don’t change," he murmured.

They finished the dishes without much talk. Just two siblings side by side, the clink of cutlery and the warmth of the water between them.

Outside the window, the sky had gone completely dark.

But the kitchen light stayed on — glowing softly over old habits, and the slow return of something close to peace.

Search the lightnovelworld.cc website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.