Two weeks passed.

In Lancashire, time moved like honey—thick and golden, sweet in its slowness. Days were marked by tea refills, the rustle of returned books, and children giggling between the shelves of the tiny brick library on Whitmoor Lane.

Evie had not expected to see him again. She wasn't the sort to hope for things she couldn't name.

Still, she kept the small piano tucked into the corner of her mind, like a pressed flower in a dictionary—delicate, and somehow still alive.

She had just finished shelving a well-worn volume of Keats when Nora Mae called up the stairs.

"Evie!" her grandmother's voice echoed from the entry. "There's a letter for you, darling! Hand-delivered. Not postmarked."

Evie froze.

Letters didn't usually arrive without stamps.

And certainly not with her name inked in jazzy, looping handwriting that looked more like a signature at the bottom of a music sheet than anything formal.

She opened it carefully, the scent of something warm clinging to the paper—leather, rain, maybe coffee. Maybe memory.

Miss Whitmore,

I hope this note finds you somewhere between a poem and a cup of good tea.

You probably don't remember me—though if you do, I'm flattered and only a little surprised.

I'm the fellow from the café with the broken piano and the not-so-broken grin. The one who may have flirted just enough to be memorable but not enough to be unforgivable.

I'm back in Lancashire for three days. Another piano, this time at the Rose & Finch. They say it's beyond repair. I say it's just misunderstood.

Would you consider joining me? I promise nothing but slightly out-of-tune music, too much cinnamon in the apple tarts, and a good conversation. (Also, I'm rather curious how the rest of your letter turned out.)

Yours in melody,
Teddy Holloway
P.S. I kept your sunbeam. It's in my coat pocket.

Evie stared at the page so long, her tea went cold beside her.

Nora Mae appeared behind her shoulder like a ghost in a cardigan. "If you don't go," she said, her voice full of dry wisdom, "I will. And I'll bring your best dress with me."

Evie laughed despite herself.

The Rose & Finch sat at the edge of town like an old song—familiar, slightly dusty, but still full of warmth.

When she arrived, the place was quiet, the usual sound of clinking glasses replaced by the low hum of a piano being coaxed back to life.

He was there.

Sleeves rolled, brow furrowed, coaxing something tender from worn-out keys. He looked up when she entered—just once—but it was enough. His smile said it all:

You came.

Evie smoothed her coat and made her way over. "I brought a book," she said.

"I brought dessert," he replied, sliding over a tart.

They sat. Talked. Not about grand things. Just the kind that mattered. Childhood stories. Favorite books. How cinnamon can be comforting or overpowering, depending on how much you believe in it.

When he played again, it was different this time. Not just curious. Not just charming. It was a song that knew her name, even if it didn't say it.

Evie rested her chin in her hand and closed her eyes. For a moment, everything else faded. The noise, the expectations, the griefs she carried silently for others. There was just the music. And the boy who played it like he was trying to tell her something he didn't know how to say yet.

Later, as dusk softened the edges of the world, he walked her home.

Not close. Not far. Just enough to match her steps with his.

"You know," he said quietly, "I don't usually stay in one place long."

"I know," she replied, looking down at her shoes.

"But I'd like to. If there's a reason to."

She said nothing. But her gloved hand brushed his when they reached the old stone bridge—and didn't pull away.

And that, for Teddy, was reason enough.