The following weeks were the hardest of Ava's life.
The Riverside Cultural Center moved toward its grand opening. The atrium was now breathtaking — curved glass catching golden light, jasmine beginning to bloom, soft acoustic panels creating true pockets of silence. Colleagues praised her work. Clients were thrilled.
But Ava felt nothing but emptiness.
She stopped visiting the site at night. The beauty of what she had created only reminded her of what she had lost. At home she replayed every conversation in her mind, every moan, every tender word. Her body ached for Theo's voice even as her heart grieved the man she had fallen in love with across impossible time.
One evening, unable to stay away any longer, she returned. The atrium was finished and locked, but she still had access. She walked slowly through the space, touching the warm wood and cool glass, tears falling freely.
"I did it for us," she whispered to the empty air. "I hope you can see it wherever you are."
No echo answered.
Yet deep down, a tiny stubborn hope refused to die. She had changed the future once. Maybe, just maybe, love could find a way to change it again.