*Ha.*
A hollow, fractured laugh escaped him before he could swallow it back.
"I had the most incredible dream... it was like I was hypnotized," he muttered, not paying attention to where he was or who stood nearby.
"The woman from my nightmares... it was *you*."
He spoke haltingly, almost incoherently—but he never let go of the thin wrist he gripped with such desperate force.
And Juliet, her face pale and fragile beneath the moonlight, simply looked at him.
Calmly. Silently.
"Juliet... you tried to run away. With our child."
"But while running away, you fell from your horse. And the child was gone."
"You took the glass I gave you... and drank..."
After swallowing the contents of the silver cup, the woman had coughed up blood and collapsed to the floor.
"This is so strange..."
He felt her pulse beneath his fingertips—her living warmth, her heartbeat steady and real. And yet unease coiled tighter and tighter within him.
Her white dress was flawless. But he could *see* scarlet stains spreading across the fabric like blooming flowers.
She looked different from the way she had in that wild, fevered dream.
Juliet stood before him now—well-groomed, calm, motionless as a porcelain doll.
He couldn't reconcile this composed woman with the terrified, broken creature from his nightmares.
"Juliet..."
In his dreams, she had sobbed with such raw, guttural pain—as though someone beloved had died. She had screamed as though she'd lost her mind. Her body had been marked by the ugly scars of whips.
"Say something... Juliet... *please*."
He whispered her name over and over, trying to calm the panic rising in his chest.
*Juliet is alive. She didn't drink poison. Her heart is beating. She's warm. Real.*
*She's alive.*
Lennox Carlisle longed for her smile as he never had before.
*He wanted her to suddenly laugh and say it was all a ridiculous dream.*
But Juliet didn't laugh.
In the moonlight, her skin seemed even paler. Her lips were full, as though brushed with scarlet petals. They parted—and she spoke, utterly unlike what he expected.
"This is strange."
Juliet tilted her head slightly, genuine surprise flickering across her features.
"Your Grace... how do you *remember* this?"
Her calm blue eyes were the same eyes of the woman dying in his arms.
Lennox froze.
His thoughts shattered. He grabbed her face—gentle but desperate, holding her still.
"It can't be..."
*This Juliet couldn't be that woman. She couldn't possibly remember.*
"No... it can't be..."
But despite his denial, he already *knew*.
*His nightmares were her memories.*
Juliet Montague—his beloved—had always seemed too calm for her age. She hardly laughed. And she certainly never cried.
He had considered it odd... a convenient oddity.
But now he understood: her feelings weren't *absent*.
They had been ***erased***.
She looked down at the man kneeling before her, his eyes filled with despair.
The man who never bowed his head.
Who was now begging.
"Juliet... *please*..."
But she—who could crush a proud man with a single word—remained utterly impassive.
Not a drop of pity. Not anger. Nothing at all.
She felt only one thing:
*How... strange.*
*Why was she the only one who returned to the past?*
*Why did Lennox remember something too?*
She no longer thought about him.
Only about herself. About Juliet Montague. About why fate had brought them together again.
At first, she had thought going back in time was a chance. A gift. Or a punishment.
She had been saved twice—by death, and by a lie.
She struggled gently to free herself from his grip.
*And yet here she was again. Why?*
She almost knew the answer.
*It was all for this moment. For her to meet him—here and now.*
"What do you want to hear?" she asked softly.
"Say it, and I will say it."
"Tell me it's not true..."
Juliet let out a quiet, bitter laugh—and said the words he was desperate to hear.
"That's not true. None of it ever happened."
She touched his cheek with soft, cool fingers.
"The baby didn't die. No... I never had one."
In a quiet voice, she repeated what he so desperately wanted to believe.
"And His Grace did not kill me."
The last words... she swallowed.
She remained silent.
But even though she had given him exactly what he wanted, he was not satisfied.
"Do you want me to cry with you?"
Juliet thought about it for a moment.
But there were no tears.
She had stopped crying in front of this man a long time ago.
---
## — The Day She Died —
Juliet remembered the day of her death very clearly.
It had been a bright, sunny day at the end of summer.
She had spent the entire season in a semi-delirious state, teetering on the edge of madness.
Every time she regained lucidity, she cried—until her voice vanished completely.
And when words failed her, all she could do was throw vases at the man who visited her and curse him in silence.
The very man she was terrified of.
He—as if mocking her loss—would occasionally return the things he had once taken from her by force.
Sometimes, overcome with rage, he would tear her small room apart and then shower her with expensive jewelry, as though replacing something that had lost all meaning.
And every time this happened, Juliet would mechanically finger the bright gemstones and mutter in a low, hollow voice:
"You should have killed me."
"Shut your mouth," he would reply.
Their gazes met only during fits of furious argument. But he never tired of tormenting her—watching her constantly, as though ensuring she wouldn't, God forbid, take her own life.
"You will not have any more children."
When her doctor delivered this news a few months later, Juliet felt no pain. No anger.
She didn't know whether she had been weak from the start or whether it was a consequence of the fall from her horse.
She simply thought: *So be it.*
Surprisingly, *he* was the one who reacted.
He stopped coming to see her.
The man who had previously forced medicine down her throat, who had tormented her for the slightest provocation—he seemed to forget her existence from that day forward.
One day, while passing the hours in silence, Juliet approached the window overlooking the garden and asked:
"Where are the cornflowers?"
Deep blue cornflowers—her late mother's favorite flowers—used to grow right beneath her window.
The maid, carrying a tray, replied without looking up.
"They're gone now, miss."
"When did they stop blooming?"
"It's nearly autumn."
The words were spoken as though Juliet herself should have known.
She looked at the maid who brought the food.
A stranger.
Once, soon after moving into the mansion, there had been those who tended to her with warmth. They would say:
*Of all those the Duke cycles through, only you, Miss, have remained for more than one season.*
Back then, she had naively rejoiced at those words, feeling special.
But those girls were long gone.
Among the servants, as everywhere, there was a hierarchy. Who would want to serve a woman the Duke himself made no effort to hide his contempt for?
Forgotten by all, she remained a recluse—oblivious to the changing seasons.
Now, only the youngest and most inexperienced tended to her.
And suddenly, Juliet realized she had become a *burden*.
Even isolated from the world, she heard rumors that all the servants' attention was now focused on the woman in the eastern tower—the one they whispered owned untold treasures.
Looking out the window, Juliet noticed carriages entering the courtyard, one after another.
In the suite of rooms that had not been used in ages, lights flickered to life. Apparently, a ball was being prepared.
She was silent for a long while.
Then she said:
"Bring me a mirror."
The maid obeyed reluctantly.
The mirror reflected the face of a woman who looked more corpse than invalid.
Juliet stared at herself and said:
"I need to attend the ball. Call someone to help me dress."
"But..."
The maids hesitated, unwilling to participate in yet another doomed venture by a woman who had fallen from grace.
"Don't be afraid," Juliet said softly. "I'll make sure you aren't punished."
She extended her hand.
"Help me up."
Her body was so emaciated that even bathing on her own was nearly impossible.
They pulled out a dress hidden in the farthest corner of the wardrobe. They trimmed her hair, the ends of which had long since split and frayed.
The longest part of the process was attempting to conceal her deathly pallor. Her lifeless lips were painted layer after layer with bright crimson, trying to restore even a hint of color.
At first, the maids worked reluctantly.
But gradually—oddly enough—they began to take pride in their task.
"What if we try this?"
"Wonderful."
Juliet still felt as though her face belonged to someone else, hastily painted over like a theater mask.
But in the eyes of the girls who had styled her many times before, there was a glimmer of admiration.
They had managed to make her look less like a woman who had lain half-dead for months.
She was satisfied with this.
"Bring the jewelry box."
The maids gasped when they saw the sparkling contents.
"This will suit you perfectly."
They enthusiastically offered necklaces, earrings, brooches...
The box was full of jewelry collected over the years. But Juliet felt no attachment to any of it.
Before leaving the room, she said to the maids:
"Take what you want."
"What? But—"
"I don't need them anymore."
Smiling faintly, Juliet turned and walked toward the ballroom.
---