The next morning, Julian and I met outside my caf�. The sky was overcast, the air thick with the promise of rain. I stood near the curb, arms crossed, watching as he pulled up in a sleek black sedan. The car was clean but worn, the kind that had seen years of travel but still held strong.

He rolled down the window. "You sure about this?"

I met his gaze. "Absolutely."

Julian sighed and unlocked the passenger door. I slid in, the faint scent of leather and cedarwood surrounding me. As he pulled away from the curb, I kept my hands folded in my lap, resisting the urge to fidget.

The drive was quiet at first, the tension between us thick. Then Julian spoke.

"You ever been to the West Side Market before?"

I shook my head. "Not really my kind of place."

He let out a short laugh. "Yeah, doesn't seem like it."

I frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Julian shrugged. "You run a bookstore caf�, live in a cozy little apartment, probably read more than you go out. Flea markets are more for people like me - people who dig through junk hoping to find treasure."

I turned toward him, intrigued despite myself. "And did you find treasure that day?"

He hesitated. Then, softly, "I think so."

Something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten. I faced forward, watching the city blur past.

The flea market came into view a few minutes later - an old, sprawling lot filled with makeshift stalls, mismatched tents, and vendors calling out their deals. It was a place that smelled of dust and nostalgia, where trinkets from forgotten lives were laid out on rickety tables, waiting to be chosen again.

Julian parked, cutting the engine. "Last chance to back out," he murmured.

I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Not a chance."

We stepped out, the air buzzing with voices, the scent of roasted peanuts and fried dough drifting from a food stall nearby. My heartbeat picked up as I scanned the crowd. Somewhere in this maze of forgotten items, my husband's secret was buried.

Julian led the way, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. We weaved through the vendors, passing booths filled with antique clocks, stacks of yellowed books, faded Polaroid pictures no one remembered taking.

Then he stopped.

"This is where I bought it."

I followed his gaze to a cluttered stall filled with jewelry - vintage brooches, tangled necklaces, rings in tiny velvet boxes. An older man sat behind the table, his face weathered, his sharp eyes flicking up as we approached.

"Back again, huh?" he said, smirking at Julian.

I stiffened. Julian's shoulders tensed.

"You remember him?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay calm.

"Sure do," the vendor said, leaning forward. "He was real interested in that wedding band. Said it felt important."

My pulse pounded in my ears.

I turned to Julian. "I thought you said you just bought it."

Julian's jaw tightened. He didn't meet my eyes.

I swallowed hard, turning back to the vendor. "Do you remember where you got the ring?"

The old man scratched his beard. "Mmm. Came in a box of stuff from an estate sale, I think. Some guy offloaded a bunch of things. Didn't look too closely - rings like that don't usually mean much."

My breath hitched. "Do you remember the name of the estate?"

He shrugged. "Might have the paperwork somewhere. But why do you care so much about that ring?"

I hesitated. Then, quietly, "Because it belonged to my husband."

The vendor's eyes widened slightly, his smirk fading. He looked between me and Julian, as if realizing for the first time that something bigger was at play.

"Wait here," he muttered, pushing back his chair and disappearing behind the stall.

I turned to Julian, my voice low and sharp. "You lied to me."

His gaze snapped to mine, dark and unreadable. "Lana - "

"You knew there was something off about that ring."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I - " He exhaled heavily. "Yeah. I did."

Anger and confusion tangled inside me. "Then why didn't you say anything?"

Julian held my gaze. "Because I wanted to know the truth just as much as you do."

My chest rose and fell rapidly. I didn't know whether to believe him.

Before I could say anything else, the vendor returned, a crumpled paper in his hands.

"Found it," he said.

I took the paper from him, my fingers trembling as I scanned the details. My breath caught.

The estate sale belonged to a man named Daniel Holloway.

My husband's name.

The world tilted beneath me.

Julian stepped closer, peering over my shoulder. I felt him stiffen.

"Lana," he said softly.

But I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

Because if my husband's belongings had been sold at an estate sale?

That meant someone had declared him dead.

And if he was supposed to be dead?

Then where the hell was he now?