The Shape of Then

The storm came just after midnight.

Rain tapped steadily against the windows, and the wind moaned across the cliffs in long, mournful sighs. Sloane stood in the library, barefoot on the cool wooden floor, a glass of red wine warming in her palm. The room was enormous, filled with rows of aged books stretching floor to ceiling, an iron chandelier flickering above, and velvet curtains drawn partially open to let in the wild sea light.

She hadn’t meant to find this place. Her restlessness had carried her from corridor to corridor, past locked doors and antique mirrors that reflected her only dimly, as if unsure who she was. But the library door had been ajar, waiting for her.

It smelled of dust and cedar and the faintest trace of tobacco.

The fire had been lit already, roaring with cracks of hollowness.

She sipped her wine and let her eyes drift toward the far corner, where a large wooden desk sat beneath a leaded glass window. Papers were stacked neatly beside an open book and, just off to the right, a photograph turned facedown.

Sloane hesitated. Then crossed the room.

The photo frame was silver and slightly tarnished, the kind that belonged to someone who valued history over polish. She turned it over.

Her breath hitched.

It was her.

Younger. Sun-drenched, wild-haired, laughing in a way she hadn’t in years. She remembered the day only just barely. A summer that felt like an entire life in a bottle. Theo had taken the picture on an old camera, claiming he wanted to remember her exactly as she was in that moment: unfiltered. Unafraid.

She touched the edge of the frame with two fingers.

That summer had felt endless. She had just turned twenty-two. Fresh out of NYU, still high on the glow of a book deal no one had expected her to land so young. Theo had entered her orbit during that first literary gala. He was older, mysterious, already a ghost in the publishing world. He didn’t write under his name, but everything he touched turned to gold. Or ash.

She hadn’t been able to tell which, at first.

He’d challenged her, argued with her, mocked her chapters with a smirk that infuriated and enticed. But he had read her closely, deeply, like her words deserved to be studied. When he touched her, it was with hands that knew exactly where she broke and where she wanted to be broken.

They wrote together. Slept together. Fought like wolves.

It was lightning in a bottle. Until it wasn’t.

Sloane traced the photograph with her thumb. That summer had ended without a notice, just one silent morning and a missing manuscript. He had vanished, and with him went her trust, her future, and the story she thought she was going to tell.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

She turned.

Theo stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to the forearms, collar open just enough to reveal the edge of a chain around his neck. His expression was unreadable.

“You always were curious,” he said, his voice low and dry.

“You kept this?” she asked, holding the photo up between them.

“I keep everything that matters.”

Sloane scoffed lightly, but it lacked weight. “Why am I here, Theo? What do you want from me now?”

He stepped into the room, slow, deliberate. “Maybe I want to finish what we started.”

“We didn’t start anything,” she snapped, setting the photo down with more force than necessary. “You ended it. Disappeared. Took what was mine.”

He paused near the fire, gaze fixed on the flames. “I never stole your words.”

“No?” She crossed her arms. “Then how did someone else publish them six months later, with different names and watered-down lines?”

Theo didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was quiet. “The truth was never that simple.”

A silence stretched between them.

Sloane turned back to the window, her reflection ghosted over the rain-slick glass. “And is it simple now?”

“No,” he said. “But it’s waiting.”

The fire crackled behind her. She thought she saw a flicker of something in the glass that didn’t quite belong. But when she turned, the room was still.

She moved past him without another word, pausing only as she reached the door.

“This place…” she said, her voice barely audible, “it remembers things.”

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t follow.

She didn’t expect him to.

As she walked back toward the east wing, the hallways felt narrower. More alive. Shadows pooled in the corners like waiting eyes. A draft curled along her ankles, colder than before.

Just before reaching her door, she glanced over her shoulder.

Nothing there.

But something itched beneath her skin, a glimpse of memory that hadn’t happened yet.

Or one she had forgotten to forget.