It was market day, and the air smelled of mandarin peel, wet canvas, and something faintly metallic. The kind of morning where the sky hovered in silver quiet, as if deciding whether or not to let the rain fall.
Clara walked two steps behind Julian as they weaved through the cobbled street, lined with stalls draped in soft colors. She wasn't sure what surprised her more — that he agreed to come or that he looked almost comfortable beneath the open sky.
The market pulsed with gentle life. An elderly man folded lotus leaves into neat bundles while his wife handed out small paper cups of herbal tea. A boy chased pigeons across puddles while his mother apologized to every stranger he bumped into. The scent of steamed buns drifted from a cart near the entrance, mingling with fresh-cut lilies and roasted chestnuts.
Julian stopped near a paper merchant's stand. He studied a stack of hand-bound journals, running his fingers across the edge of the covers. Clara watched him silently. He wore his usual gray coat and black turtleneck, but there was something softer in his expression today. Less guarded. Less sharp.
"Do you write?" she asked, approaching.
He looked up. "No. But my mother used to. She collected things like these."
Clara nodded, letting the moment settle.
They walked further into the heart of the market. She paused to admire a row of watercolor postcards, her fingers brushing the one with a koi pond and pale pink blossoms. Behind her, Julian handed a vendor a folded bill and placed a wrapped parcel in her tote without saying a word.
The artist smiled at Clara. "He has good taste."
Clara smiled politely, trying not to let it show on her face that her heart had leapt a little.
They turned a corner toward a quieter section of the market, and that's when she saw it.
A man — tall, in his late forties, camera slung casually around his neck paused mid-step as Julian passed. His lens lifted. Not high, not obvious. Just enough to catch something.
Click.
Clara heard it. So did Julian.
Julian froze.
The man turned as if to browse a stall of vintage typewriters, but Clara could tell. He wasn't interested in typewriters. He was watching them from the edge of his glasses.
Julian stepped forward, voice low. "Delete it."
The man looked up. "I was just shooting street scenes."
"Delete it," Julian repeated.
Clara laid a hand on his arm. "Julian."
But the way Julian stood — completely still, chin slightly lowered, eyes unreadable — made her pulse pick up.
The photographer slowly opened his camera menu. "Fine. Look. Deleted. Happy?"
Julian didn't blink. "The backup."
"I don't—"
"She asked nicely," Julian said, voice even colder now. "I won't."
There was a pause, then the man's lips curled. "You're not as hidden as you think, Mr. Blackwell."
Julian didn't respond. He just turned, took Clara's hand, and walked away.
They didn't speak until they reached the quieter end of the street, where paper lanterns hung from a shop awning. Clara glanced up at him. His jaw was tight, but his hand hadn't let go of hers.
"Was he paparazzi?" she asked quietly.
"Most likely. Or someone hired to act like one."
"Why would they care?"
"Because we showed up in public. Together."
She pulled her hand from his and folded her arms. "You knew this might happen."
"I did," he said. "I didn't expect it to bother me."
"And did it?"
He looked at her, and something shifted in his expression. "Yes."
Clara exhaled, eyes roaming the quiet side street. "Then maybe next time, we walk in separately."
Julian said nothing. But as she turned to continue walking, his hand reached out, brushing her fingers again. He didn't take her hand fully. Just touched it, briefly, as if unsure he was allowed.
And that meant more than any grip ever could.
They didn't speak much for the rest of the morning. But they lingered longer than expected.
Julian bought a packet of osmanthus-scented tea for her mother and a tiny jade charm shaped like a crescent moon for her; silently slipping it into her pocket when she wasn't looking.
Clara didn't comment.
But she felt it there, against her hip.
A reminder that even cold hands could learn how to hold gently.
Clara noticed the letter only when she emptied her tote bag back at the penthouse.
Tucked between the watercolor postcards and the parcel of tea Julian had quietly slipped in was a simple cream envelope. No stamp. No name. Just her.
She hesitated before opening it.
The handwriting inside was careful, slanted, like someone used to writing on lined paper. It read:
Ms. Wynter,
I saw you at the bookshop reading to that little girl last month.
You didn't know, but her mother was having a very hard day. You made it better.
You reminded me that kindness isn't loud.
I don't know if the world deserves people like you, but I'm glad you're in it.
From someone who used to be your fan. Still am.
Clara stood still in the middle of the living room, her fingers tightening slightly on the page.
It was unsigned. Anonymous. But genuine in a way no social media comment or whispered compliment had ever felt. It wasn't about her looks or the man she was with. It was about her.
Julian entered from the hall just then, holding two mugs of warm barley tea.
He paused. "What's that?"
Clara folded the letter neatly. "Something kind."
She didn't elaborate, and he didn't push.
They sat by the window, the city stretching out like a painting lit in soft silver. Clara watched as Julian sipped his tea without speaking, his eyes unusually unfocused.
"What is it?" she asked.
He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a thick envelope — the kind used for formal invitations. He slid it across the coffee table.
Clara picked it up and read the embossed front.
Invitational Exhibition: The Forgotten Blackwell — A Retrospective of Unreleased Pieces by Margaret Elinor Blackwell. Hosted by Vera Vogue Gallery. Opening Night: This Friday.
She looked up, brows furrowed. "Is this… your mother's?"
Julian nodded once. "Her private works. Never displayed before."
Clara's voice dropped to a whisper. "Are you going?"
"I wasn't planning to. She hated attention."
"But this isn't about her. It's about how people remember her."
Julian didn't reply, but his fingers curled slightly around the handle of the cup. Clara recognized the stillness. Not anger. Not sadness. The kind of ache that had no proper name.
"She once told me," he said after a moment, "that showing vulnerability was like handing someone a loaded weapon."
Clara leaned forward. "And do you believe that?"
"I used to."
"And now?"
He looked at her. No suits. No scripts. Just him.
"I'm trying to learn something else."
Clara stood, walked over, and sat beside him on the couch. She didn't touch him. Just sat quietly, shoulder to shoulder.
"Maybe you should go," she said softly. "Not for them. For you."
They sat like that for a long time, the evening light dimming into soft shadows.
Outside the window, lanterns flickered from distant rooftop gardens.
Julian didn't say yes. But later that night, Clara noticed the invitation still resting on the table — not thrown away, not hidden, but left in the open.
A small sign of something shifting.
And when she reached into her coat pocket to hang it up, her fingers brushed the jade charm he had bought at the market.
A crescent moon. Cool to the touch.
She closed her hand around it and didn't let go.