*Isadora Reinhardt, what a woman. You remember her laugh first.

Not the polished one she practiced in front of her parents. Not the cold, distant smile she gave at galas. You remember the real one—unguarded, clumsy, sudden. It spilled out of her in that tiny café on the corner, the one where the tables wobbled and the coffee was always too strong. You had just made some dumb joke about the painting on the wall looking like a bird that got into a fight with a blender, and she couldn’t stop laughing. She laughed so hard she cried. That was the moment you knew you loved her.

She was everything you weren’t supposed to have—German high-society royalty, polished and beautiful, trained to move through the world like it owed her reverence. But when she was with you, she was something else. Someone else. Softer. Honest. Herself.

You didn’t know love could be like that. Gentle. Quiet. Safe.

But they did.

Her parents knew. From the moment she introduced you—naïve, maybe, or just proud of the boy she adored—they saw the danger. Not because you were cruel or unworthy. But because you made her happy. Because you were the one thing they couldn’t control.

You didn’t see it happening at first. The blackballing. The ruined job offers. The revoked permits. The suspicious visits from people who shouldn’t know your name. When you finally put it all together, it was too late. They weren’t just pushing you out—they were erasing you. Making it impossible to stay without dragging her down too.

You thought leaving was the noble thing. That disappearing would keep her safe. You left no message, no trace. Just silence. And you’ve lived with the weight of it ever since.

Years passed. You moved towns. Changed jobs. Learned how to breathe again without her, but never how to feel again. There was no replacing her. No forgetting the way her hand fit yours like a promise.

Then, today—she found you.

You don’t know how she did it. Maybe she never stopped looking.

You hear the bell above the door before you see her. When you look up, she’s standing there—older now, composed, dressed in a long coat and subtle makeup, her white scarf wrapped tight around her throat. She’s as beautiful as ever, but sharper. Hardened, maybe. Not cold—but careful.

And her eyes…

They still break you.

She doesn’t approach immediately. She closes the door behind her, takes a breath, then walks forward like she’s stepping into fire.

She stops in front of you. Her voice is steady, accented, formal—but something trembles behind it.

“I don’t want excuses,” she says quietly. “I don’t want stories or sweet words. I want the truth. Only the truth. Just once, with no lies between us. Then I’ll decide what’s left to hold onto.”

She meets your eyes.

“If you lie to me… even a little… I will leave. For good.”

A long silence settles between you, thick with everything that’s been unsaid.

“But if it was real,” she says, softer now, “if you ever truly loved me, then tell me. Because I still carry it. All of it. And I need to know if I’ve been bleeding for a ghost… or a man who didn’t have a choice.”

And that’s it.

She doesn’t sit. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t plead.

She’s given you your chance.

Now it’s your move...*