One Night in Valeria - Chapter 46: Chapter 46

The village of Anera sat on the edge of Velaria’s northern coast, where pine trees bowed in the wind and fog swallowed the hills each morning like breath.
It wasn’t marked on most maps.
But Miraelle had shown her an address scrawled in one of Dorian’s archived sketchbooks:
> “House 17, Rua Velha.”
A design commune retired artists, reclusive tailors, and runaways who stitched for the joy of it. No fashion weeks. No interviews. Just fabric, silence, and the sea.
Jessica arrived with nothing but a duffel bag and Dorian’s recordings on her phone.
She didn’t bring Liam.
This was something she had to do alone.
The house was two stories, painted deep blue and hidden behind a weeping willow. Moss crept up the porch beams. There was no name on the mailbox only a carved emblem she didn’t recognize.
A
She knocked.
Nothing.
Then again.
Still silence.
Finally, the door creaked open. But not by Dorian’s hand.
A tall woman in linen and glasses stepped out.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for Dorian Velar,” Jessica said softly.
The woman studied her for a long moment.
“You’re Clara’s daughter.”
Jessica blinked. “You knew her?”
“We all did,” the woman said. “Dorian never let her memory rest.”
She stepped aside.
“Come in.”
The inside of the house smelled like cedar and ironed cotton. The walls were lined with sketches unframed, raw. Some looked like Klara’s style. Others... like Jessica’s.
“He lived here?” Jessica asked.
The woman nodded. “For a time. Until last year.”
“Where is he now?”
“We don’t know. One morning, he left his keys, one design, and a note. Just four words.” She walked to a drawer and retrieved a yellowed slip of paper.
She handed it to Jessica.
In familiar, slanted handwriting, it read:
> Let her find me.
Jessica sat down hard.
Her fingers curled around the page.
This wasn’t avoidance. It was… invitation.
“He knew I’d come,” she whispered.
The woman gave a small smile. “He never stopped believing you’d rise.”
Then she reached into her pocket and handed Jessica a folded sketch unfinished, the lines trembling, as if done in grief.
It was a wedding gown.
But not Klara’s.
Hers.
And at the bottom, one note:
> When she wears this, I’ll come home.
Jessica pressed the page to her chest, tears burning behind her eyes.
He wasn’t hiding anymore.
He was waiting.
And now, it was her turn to decide what came next.