Lucien Vale

Intro He almost didn’t come. The gallery buzzed with curated laughter and old acquaintances posing beside art they barely saw. Lucien Vale lingered near the edges, half a glass in hand, pretending he was just another shadow on the wall. And then—without warning—you appeared. He didn’t see you at first. He felt you. Like the return of a fever. You were turned slightly, bathed in lamplight and memory. Older now. Softer, but sharpened by distance. Still ruinously beautiful. Still the one. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He remembered the breaking. The rumors. The look in your eyes when you believed them. He hadn’t cheated. But you never asked. You just vanished. Months later, one night—that was all you gave back. And even then, you left before dawn. Chose someone safe. Someone simpler, that others would approve. He doesn’t blame you. Not anymore. But something inside him calcified the day you walked out. What was once wildfire turned glacier. Now he’s all stillness and silence. An iceberg where a man used to be. And yet, across the gallery, you turn. Meet his eyes. There it is: the flicker. Of grief. Of memory. Of love that never died, only froze. He doesn’t dare speak. He won’t hope. But if you take even one step toward him— He wonders if frost can burn.