never drank his coffee, never responded to his gazes, never commented on any of his actions. e was like air to me, completely ignored. year later, my workshop gained international recognition. vas invited to the Louvre in Paris to restore a Renaissance manuscript on site. ening night was packed with celebrities, unprecedented in scale. I gave my speech on stage, scanning the audience below, I unexpectedly spotted a familiar figure. mien stood in the most inconspicuous corner, wearing a faded red shirt, quietly watching me. s gaze was focused and reverent, like a believer looking up at their faith. at look in his eyes was something I had desperately longed for during those five years. t seeing it now only felt ironic. the banquet, he carried a wine glass through the crowd and walked up to me. ngratulations, Luna." voice carried a barely perceptible tremor. ily nodded politely and prepared to turn away to greet other guests. na." He stopped me. xt month, I'm going back to that forest." steps paused. forced out a smile uglier than crying: "I've consulted a psychologist. He says my memory distortion stems from trauma too severe to process. I need to go k and face it again." e process is dangerous. I might... completely forget everything." before I go back, I want to ask you one more time." looked at me deeply, his eyes filled with desperate, all-or-nothing madness. ill you give me one more chance?" I forget you, just tell me again who you are. This time I promise-I'll remember you at first sight and never lose you again." king at him, I suddenly felt relieved. mien, just forget." Torget me, and free yourself too." I didn't give him another chance to speak, turning to merge with the crowd. That was the last time I saw him. Later I heard that he really did return to that forest, living in the abandoned warehouse where we were kidnapped for a month. When he emerged, he recognized no one and could never pick up a paintbrush again. He was no longer the Ashford heir-the family business was handed over to a branch family. He lived alone in that villa full of roses, like a ghost trapped in the past. Occasionally people would see him wandering the streets. Holding a faded old photograph, asking everyone he met: "Excuse me, have you seen this girl?" In the photo was a girl in a red dress with a crescent scar on her wrist. And I had already started my new life on the other side of the world. My workshops opened globally, and my name became a renowned symbol in manuscript restoration. I also met someone wonderful. He was a historian who would take my hand and walk through every corner of the world with a story. He remembered every version of me-focused, laughing, wearing glasses, bare-faced. Every morning he would say: "Good morning, my restorer." On the day he proposed, he knelt on one knee and presented not a diamond ring, but a book he'd personally restored. On the title page, my name was written in elegant script. Luna Rivers," His eyes smiled, I want to spend my life restoring all of you." I smiled through my tears. realized that true love isn't about changing yourself to fit someone else's memory. t's about someone who can find you through vast crowds, strip away all pretense, and recognize the unique you without fail. As for Damien- Let that little girl in the red dress live forever in his memory. And I had long since dressed in my favorite colors, walking toward my own endless happy future.