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Chapter 4 – The Distance Between Two Hands

  (Expanded & Immersive Version)

  The city outside remained frozen under the sterile violet sky.

  Inside the crumbling Library of Lost Emotions,

  Moneytory and Haejin sat across from each other—

  an old, dust-covered table the only thing between them.

  He couldn't stop glancing at her.

  At the tiny ways she moved,

  the faint frown when she tried to remember something just out of reach.

  The way her fingers hesitated on the spine of a book, as if unsure if she was allowed to feel anything anymore.

  


  "You really think..."

  "We knew each other?" she asked, voice barely a whisper.

  He nodded.

  


  "Not just knew.

  I was supposed to stay by your side."

  She laughed softly—bitterly.

  


  "Supposed to.

  A lot of things are supposed to happen, aren’t they?"

  Moneytory winced.

  Not at her words, but at the truth behind them.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  For a moment, the silence between them felt like a canyon.

  Neither moved.

  Neither spoke.

  He wanted to reach out.

  He wanted to grab her hand,

  hold it tight,

  promise her the world wouldn't break them again.

  But his hand stayed still.

  Fear.

  Not of rejection—

  of failure.

  Of repeating the same mistake he'd made before.

  She tilted her head slightly, studying him.

  Eyes sharp, but not unkind.

  


  "You're scared," she said.

  He looked away.

  


  "I'm scared too," she added, almost shyly.

  


  "Of what?"

  


  "Of remembering."

  Her hand hovered halfway across the table.

  Half a bridge built, trembling at the edge.

  Moneytory swallowed hard.

  This wasn't some grand epic battle against monsters or gods.

  This was something much harder:

  Two broken people deciding if they dared trust again.

  He finally moved.

  Slowly.

  Painfully.

  He placed his hand on the table, palm up.

  An offering.

  A risk.

  No words.

  Just action.

  Haejin stared at it for a long, agonizing second.

  And then—

  She placed her hand, light as a feather, into his.

  Fingers curled.

  A fragile bond.

  The Thought Converter on his wrist flickered gold.

  Not blinding.

  Not roaring.

  A steady, living heartbeat.

  


  "You're warm," she said, almost in wonder.

  He laughed quietly, blinking back something suspiciously close to tears.

  


  "I'm alive," he answered.

  "I want to be."

  They sat there,

  hands linked,

  while the frozen world outside began to crack,

  tiny fractures spreading across the perfect facade.

  A reminder:

  


  Life isn't meant to be perfect.

  It's meant to be felt.

  To be continued...

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