Amelia couldn't sleep after the dream.
She sat at the kitchen counter, a half-empty glass of water in front of her, tracing patterns on the condensation with her fingertips. Celeste had stayed by the window, unmoving, staring at the sky like it held answers neither of them could reach.
The weight of the dream pressed against Amelia's ribs, heavy and inescapable.
She had known Celeste.
Not in the way she thought she did—not just as the girl she had painted, the girl who stepped from her canvas. No, this was deeper. Older.
A memory that wasn't a memory at all.
Celeste turned from the window. "You're thinking again."
Amelia exhaled a short laugh. "Yeah, well. Hard not to."
Celeste walked toward her, quiet and slow, her movements carrying a strange grace that Amelia still wasn't used to. She pulled out the chair across from her and sat, resting her chin in her hand.
"You're afraid," Celeste said softly. It wasn't a question.
Amelia's fingers stilled on the glass. "…I don't know if 'afraid' is the right word."
Celeste studied her, those impossibly deep eyes searching for something beneath Amelia's skin. "Then what is?"
Amelia opened her mouth, then closed it.
What was she supposed to say? That she didn't understand what was happening? That she was starting to feel like her own reality had been rewritten? That the way Celeste looked at her, like she had been waiting for her all her life, made Amelia's heart ache in a way she couldn't explain?
She settled on the safest truth she could offer.
"I just… I don't understand."
Celeste's expression softened. "Neither do I."
That should have made her feel better. But it didn't.
Because Celeste was remembering things.
And Amelia wasn't.
—
The next morning, Celeste woke Amelia before the sun had fully risen.
"We need to go," she said simply.
Amelia groaned, still tangled in sleep. "Go where?"
Celeste didn't answer right away. She sat on the edge of the bed, her back to Amelia, fingers gripping the fabric of her sweater. "There's something I need to find."
Amelia pushed herself upright, rubbing at her eyes. "Something you need to find?"
Celeste nodded.
Amelia sighed. "And let me guess—you don't know what it is?"
Celeste turned then, her gaze steady. "I don't. But I know where we have to start."
Amelia stared at her for a long moment.
She should say no. She should insist that they stay in the apartment, that they think before running off on some unknown adventure.
But deep down, she knew that wasn't an option anymore.
She was already too far in.
"…Fine," Amelia muttered, tossing off the blankets. "Let me get dressed."
Celeste smiled.
And for some reason, Amelia's chest ached at the sight of it.
—
They ended up at an antique bookstore on the Lower East Side.
Amelia had no idea why.
Celeste had simply taken her hand, led her through the maze of subway stations and busy streets, and stopped in front of the little shop with its dusty windows and crooked sign.
"This is it," Celeste said, sounding so certain that Amelia didn't bother arguing.
The bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside. The scent of old pages and time-worn leather wrapped around them, warm and familiar. Shelves towered over them, packed so tightly with books that it seemed like an entire other world existed between their pages.
A woman sat behind the counter, flipping through a book with lazy interest. She glanced up when they entered, her sharp green eyes sweeping over them. "Welcome," she said, voice smooth like honey. "Let me know if you need help finding something."
Celeste didn't hesitate. "Do you have anything on dreams?"
The woman arched a brow. "Dreams?"
Celeste nodded. "And memories."
Amelia tensed beside her, suddenly feeling very exposed.
The woman set her book down and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. "That's a very particular request."
Celeste didn't waver. "Do you have anything?"
A slow smile spread across the woman's lips. "I just might."
She stood and disappeared behind one of the towering shelves.
Amelia turned to Celeste, voice low. "Why dreams? Why memories?"
Celeste's fingers curled at her sides. "…Because I think they're the same thing."
Amelia swallowed. "Celeste—"
"I remember more now," Celeste murmured, staring at the floor. "Not everything. But pieces. And in every one of them, you're there."
Amelia's breath caught.
Before she could say anything, the woman returned, holding a thin, weathered book. She set it down on the counter and slid it toward them.
It was old—really old—the edges of the pages worn with time. The cover had no title, just an intricate golden design that shimmered under the dim bookstore lights.
"This might be what you're looking for," the woman said.
Celeste reached for it first, running her fingers over the design as if she already knew it. As if it was familiar.
Amelia shivered.
Something about this felt… significant.
She didn't know how. She didn't know why.
But she had the sinking feeling that this book was going to change everything.
Celeste carefully opened the book, flipping through delicate pages filled with strange symbols and faded ink. The script was elegant, old-fashioned, as though it had been handwritten centuries ago.
"What language is this?" Amelia whispered, peering over Celeste's shoulder.
Celeste's brow furrowed. "I… can read it."
Amelia's breath caught. "You can?"
Celeste nodded slowly, eyes scanning the page. "It's talking about… creation. About how art, when given enough meaning, enough emotion, can take on a life of its own."
Amelia's pulse quickened.
Celeste traced her fingers over the page, then paused. "Here."
Amelia leaned in closer. The passage was faded but legible:
"The bond between artist and muse is sacred. It is through the artist's longing, their devotion, their unspoken wishes, that the muse takes form. And should the longing be strong enough, should the love be true, the muse will walk among them, no longer confined to canvas or stone."
A chill ran down Amelia's spine.
"…That's you," she whispered.
Celeste didn't answer. She just turned the page.
More words. More mysteries.
And one phrase, written in bold, unmistakable letters:
"But all creations must remember where they come from, or risk unraveling into nothing."
Amelia felt the weight of those words settle deep in her chest.
Celeste's fingers trembled against the paper. "I think… I think I know why I was brought here," she whispered.
Amelia swallowed, her heart pounding. "Why?"
Celeste lifted her gaze, meeting Amelia's eyes with something deep and knowing.
"…Because you needed me."
And for the first time, Amelia wondered if maybe—just maybe—she had painted Celeste not just out of loneliness.
But out of love.
And if that love was what had made Celeste real…
Then what would happen if she ever forgot?