Liam Thomas walked through the office doors with the same confident stride he carried every morning.
He had learned to ignore the fluorescent hum above, the hollow greetings from coworkers, the cold monitors signaling another day beginning.
But today, there was something different in his eyes—a quiet calm, as if the night before still pulsed inside him like a soft melody that refused to fade.
The echo of Alessia's fingers brushing his…
her laughter over wine…
the way she looked at him as if she could see something great still waiting for him.
That gentle warmth carried him—until it didn't.
His boss was already waiting beside his desk.
A man of clipped gestures and a smile that never reached his eyes.
It only took one sentence—mechanical, empty, cruel in its simplicity—to unwind months, years, whole versions of himself.
"Liam, we need to talk. It's nothing personal… but the company no longer requires your services."
The severance envelope was handed to him like someone offering a poorly poured cup of coffee.
No ceremony.
No regret.
Not a single drop of humanity.
He held it lightly, though it felt like it weighed more than his own chest.
His throat tightened.
No words came.
He nodded—quiet, restrained—and gathered his things with slow movements, as if each object resisted being carried.
Then he walked out, feeling like he had just awakened from a dream that had never belonged to him.
First the lost promotion… now this. What am I supposed to do now?
The city outside sparkled as if nothing had happened.
People walked past him—unchanged, unaware, untouched by the gravity of his collapse.
He wandered without direction until he ended up in a park.
A place he didn't frequent, but something in its stillness called to him—unguarded sanctuary.
Leaves crunched beneath his feet, children laughed somewhere nearby, a dog barked, a kite fluttered.
The world continued—
while he sat on a wooden bench, invisible to everyone and to himself.
It's like everyone has a compass except me, he thought.
Like life knows exactly where it's going… except mine.
His phone vibrated.
Alessia.
He hesitated—just for a second—before answering.
"Hi, love," her voice came warm, wrapping around him like a coat in winter. "Are you alright?"
He opened his mouth—but the words refused to move.
The sweetness of her concern made the truth harder to swallow.
His silence was enough for her to feel it.
"Liam… my love, something happened. Tell me."
The way she said love—gently, without demanding, without fear—
was enough to make his eyes fill.
And so, slowly, voice unsteady, he told her everything.
Every word felt like a stone being lifted off him.
And she listened—truly listened—without interrupting, without trying to fix or soften it.
Just being there—present, steady, warm.
When he finished, Alessia exhaled softly.
"Don't be alone. Come to my place."
He didn't answer with words—he just nodded, and that nod was enough.
The world regained a faint color—like a door opening to something still possible.
That night, when he opened her apartment door for her, he tried to smile—but it broke at the edges.
And when he saw her—calm, lunar, knowing—he broke.
Completely.
Silently.
She didn't ask him to explain.
She just held him—gently, intentionally—like gathering something precious that had fallen apart.
Later, with glasses of wine and the kitten purring softly nearby, Liam spoke again—this time from the rawest depths.
"I feel like I'm failing. Like I have no direction. I try and try and it's never enough. It's like the world is determined to push me out."
Alessia listened—with eyes full of a comprehension older than memory.
Then she spoke, her voice soft, but sure enough to shift the ground beneath him:
"What if this isn't the end… but the beginning?"
He frowned, confused—and something hopeful flickered.
She continued, leaning closer:
"Tell me—what are you good at? What do you love? Not what the world expects. What you love."
Liam lowered his gaze, tracing the edge of the glass with his thumb.
"I love reading… history, art, old things with stories. I always wanted to own something like that—a bookstore, an antique gallery. Something small, but full of soul. But I never had the means. It felt like one of those dreams you bury before it can hurt you."
Alessia smiled.
Not with sympathy—but with recognition.
"And if I told you… I do have the means?"
He looked up—half hopeful, half afraid to hope.
"What do you mean?"
She moved closer, her voice turning into a secret:
"I want us to open something together. A shop of rare books, antiques, hidden artifacts. A place where every object has a story—or a secret. A doorway between this world and the unseen."
Liam laughed softly—disbelieving, wanting to believe.
"Seriously? We'd be… partners?"
She took his hand, fingertips brushing his pulse.
The gesture wasn't small.
It was declaration.
"Yes, partners. But not just in business… in life."
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Because for the first time in a long time—he could see a future.
Not ideal. Not perfect.
But real.
They sat together in quiet promise.
Then he stood suddenly, grabbed paper and pencil, and they began.
Brainstorming names.
Locations.
Shelves.
Scents.
Music that would play between the aisles.
Each idea was a spark—mapping a world not yet built, but already alive.
The kitten curled into Liam's lap, as if claiming the moment as fate.
Alessia watched them both, and something inside her whispered:
Maybe… I really can have a life like this.
Liam returned with two refilled glasses.
Their rims chimed lightly together.
Alessia smiled—soft, steady, luminous.
"We have a shop to open."