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The Light Between Seasons – Chapter 3: The Quiet That Follows

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September, 2017 – Lisbon, Portugal Some things don’t disappear. They retreat. Into quiet corners of memory. Into the folds of worn letters. Into the space between a breath and a name. Clara hadn’t said Elias’s name in years. Not aloud, anyway. She had learned to carry him differently—tucked behind the photographs that never made it to galleries, folded into the black-and-white portraits of strangers with eyes too familiar. Her life had stretched in the years since she left New York: Dakar, Seoul, Marrakesh, Montevideo. She chased light across continents, always moving, always framing beauty just before it slipped away. But even then, she could never quite escape the moment at JFK—the kiss that wasn’t a goodbye, the silence that followed. Sometimes the absence said more than presence ever could. Clara lived in an apartment above a bakery in Alfama now. The windows overlooked tiled rooftops and narrow stairways where stray cats wandered like old souls. She taught workshop...
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The Light Between Seasons – Chapter 3: The Quiet That Follows

-
September, 2017 – Lisbon, Portugal Some things don’t disappear. They retreat. Into quiet corners of memory. Into the folds of worn letters. Into the space between a breath and a name. Clara hadn’t said Elias’s name in years. Not aloud, anyway. She had learned to carry him differently—tucked behind the photographs that never made it to galleries, folded into the black-and-white portraits of strangers with eyes too familiar. Her life had stretched in the years since she left New York: Dakar, Seoul, Marrakesh, Montevideo. She chased light across continents, always moving, always framing beauty just before it slipped away. But even then, she could never quite escape the moment at JFK—the kiss that wasn’t a goodbye, the silence that followed. Sometimes the absence said more than presence ever could. Clara lived in an apartment above a bakery in Alfama now. The windows overlooked tiled rooftops and narrow stairways where stray cats wandered like old souls. She taught workshop...
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The Light Between Seasons – Chapter 2: Winter Without Maps

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By Love Mellows December, 2011 – Manhattan / Boston The first snow came quietly. It dusted the city in silence, softening its sharpness, making even the sirens sound like whispers. Clara had never liked winter—not really. It made her restless, like time was folding in on itself. But this year, it arrived with a kind of grace. Maybe because Elias was in it. They hadn’t meant to fall into a rhythm. No one ever does. It just… happened. A Sunday coffee turned into an afternoon at the MOMA. A Wednesday night walk became a shared dinner. Her camera bag started showing up in his apartment, and his sketchbooks found their way to hers. There were still separate lives—Clara caught trains to Providence, Detroit, Halifax for photo work. Elias lost weeks to models and city permits. But when they returned, it felt less like resuming and more like continuing a sentence neither of them had wanted to end. Almost, but Not Yet They didn’t call it love. Not yet. But there were moments. Sma...
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The Light Between Seasons – Chapter 1: A Stillness Named Elias

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October, 2011 – Brooklyn, New York Some love stories don’t announce themselves. They arrive like soft rain—uninvited, unassuming, and impossible to ignore once they’ve begun. Clara Moore wasn’t looking for love when she ducked into the old bookstore on Henry Street. She wasn’t looking for much of anything, really—just shelter from the rain and maybe something interesting to photograph. The storm had swept in suddenly, soaking the streets in a matter of minutes. Clara, dressed in a worn army jacket and combat boots, had her Leica slung over one shoulder and a coffee that had long since gone cold in her hand. She pushed through the creaky glass door, the warm scent of old pages and dust washing over her like nostalgia she hadn’t earned. It was dim inside. The kind of place where time moved differently. The windows fogged with condensation, the floors groaned with every step, and the shelves leaned slightly, as if exhausted by the weight of their own stories. She wandered....
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