She hadn’t even noticed when Alfred had entered. He quietly took the poetry book from her hands and returned it to its place on the shelf, his eyesflickering with a hint of something complicated
She couldn’t quite read him.
All she knew was that her curiosity seeined to have crossed some invisible boundary.
“Sorry,” she said softly, “I shouldn’t have gone through your books without asking.”
“It’s alright.”
He’d once told her to make herself at home here, to treat this room as her own.
This hardly counted as a violation.
Still, the timing felt off.
Alfred’s fingers twitched slightly as he smoothed his sleeve, a subtle sign of
unease.
Seeing that he didn’t look angry, Celeste’s tension eased. She edged closer, unable to resist asking, “The bookmark inside is beautiful.”
“Just something I picked up at a street stall.”
“… Really?”
Was it, though? That ginkgo–leaf bookmark had been her prized possession in high school, a limited–edition prize from a niche event. How did it end up with Alfred, who now dismissed it as a random street find?
But she wasn’t the type to dig for answers.
They were fiancés by arrangement, after all. Rifling through his bookshelf was already pushing her luck; probing deeper would only make things worse. Maybe it really was just a coincidence.
Settling back into her chair, Celeste looked for something else to pass the time, spotting a book on the cabinet.
“Porcelain Aurora? I didn’t know you were interested in ceramics too.”
The book featured a collection of world–famous porcelain pieces: some museum
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treasures, others rare folk heirlooms that had survived the centuries.
Celeste had always loved this book. After her mother passed away, no one had wanted to tell her stories about old ceramics anymore. The words in this book became her only comfort–a connection to a time she missed dearly.
Alfred followed her gaze.
“Fragile as porcelain is, it carries the weight of civilization and history. Every intricate pattern is a footprint of its era–it’s hard not to be fascinated.”
“That’s why great art can outlast the rush of time. I see you like this blue–and–white vase. Whenever I had this book in hand, I’d always turn to that page. I even traveled across the country once just to see it in a museum.”
As they spoke about ceramics, Celeste visibly relaxed. Her fingers traced the gently curling pages.
She wondered how many times Alfred had thumbed through this book.
With every turn of the page, it felt like she was glimpsing a hidden piece of his past. Who would’ve guessed that the famously aloof Mr. Alfred was a connoisseur of porcelain–and so knowledgeable, too?
Alfred stepped closer, moving alongside her. The space in front of the cabinet was narrow, so when he stopped behind her, his tall frame nearly enveloped Celeste. Reaching out, he turned the pages with her.
“This one here–I saw it in a museum years ago. The craftsmanship was incredible. It’s rare to find anyone who can replicate that kind of skill nowadays. But I’ve heard some Western masters are giving it a try…”
Encouraged by his words, Celeste opened up, chatting freely, oblivious to how close they’d become. She was absorbed in the porcelain; Alfred was quietly absorbed in
her.
Sunlight streamed through the window, casting their joined shadows together
across the floor–strangely beautiful, quietly intimate.
Behind the door, a pair of eyes watched approvingly.
Derek stroked his chin, whispering, “About time Alfred figured things out.”
“Sir, if you keep eavesdropping like this, Mr. Alfred’s not going to be pleased,” his assistant muttered, exasperated.
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But Derek, having rarely seen his grandson like this, was itching to watch a little
longer. Just as he leaned in, the door swung open.
Alfred stood there, expression frosty.
“Grandpa, was there something you needed?”
His eyes were full of irritation.
Moments of quiet like this were always interrupted by someone–though, in this case, it was his beloved grandfather.
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