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For those who have read this book before this day: 26/01/2017.

I'm veeeeery sorry. It's just I found a certain headache the more I think of her background; it doesn't mesh together.

So I changed it. Luckily, it's only the prologue and first chapter. Unfortunately it's background vastly differs from the first time drafts.

Once again I apologize. Because I'm worried my phone will die soon (the screen has begun blinking!) I'll post this half-complete chapter 1.

I'm moving phone! So transferring before fixing this mess, sorry! Please enjoy reading this chapter and look forward for the next!

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1. Of first meetings

Reborn

"Do you ever wish you had a second chance to meet someone again for the first time, but would not exchange your first meeting for anything in the world?"

-Unknown

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Morning in England was solemn even with the faint trace of murmurs outside and inside the glass wall.

It was peaceful, slow-paced, a place where he couldn't be bothered and could enjoy a moment of normalcy.

Then Reborn was perhaps only peripherally aware of a girl (he presumed around nineteen?) crossing the street.

The first he looked she was just another face in the crowd, another person in the sea of mass.

With cream-blonde hair and petit figure---her head only reached his chin, he estimated----and blue eyes, she didn't really stand out, her features were quite common at first glance.

Certainly not the rarest; not green or blue locks, nor violet or red irises.

What was it in the first place that gravitated his gaze towards her among the blurry come-and-go? He was not sure.

He was a little surprised to find she was a striking beauty her hair didn't imply.

Her colouring was reasonably plain but her features were not. But he couldn't forget those---sobluebluelikethesky---azure blue eyes.

Those were some lovely blue eyes, he decided almost absently.

She was pretty, but she was the kind of pretty that you need a closer look. So it was weird that her eyes was what made her memorable and not her face.

That and something more. A longer assesment let him realized what felt off.

She's a survivor.

A fighter.

Of what exactly he didn't know for sure. He'd seen that look, that temperament, that little tense elsewhere.

On retired mafiosos, on war veterans and refugees, on former soldiers.

It was disconcerting to see that sweeping gaze, the miniscule recoiling muscle, the restrained flinch on a girl (barely an adult.)

Oh yes, mafia kids were trained early, however they never really lost that naivety until they witnessed death or maybe even until their first kill.

She entered the café---Celeste---and looked around as if drinking the sight with desperation before approaching the staff door.

Obviously working here by the indication that she returned with a cream apron upon her white blouse, adding a loose orange tie and black leggings.

"Good morning, Laura," she greeted, her voice clearly carrying a British accent with the faintest of French.

The manager (thirty-two, owner, husband---out of town, one cat, a firm but kind woman) answered back and suddenly cupped her face, inspecting with a frown.

"Are you sick? You look pale," the woman-Laura said, leaning closer.

"What? No!" The girl exclaimed.

It was a quiet café, the ballad was too soft to muffle so much. Listening in on the conversation was not so much intentional, so much as unavoidable.

As he tried not to pay attention to words that are loud to his ears he sipped his coffee.

"This won't do. Take off your shift today, I'll call the other girl. Actually, just take the week off anyway and rest," Laura dragged her back to the staff room and bustled behind the counter after she came back.

The girl, free of apron, closed the door behind her and flinched when the manager and owner pointed her finger at her.

"You. Will. Sit over there," her finger drifted to the only empty chair, just right across his. "And. Take a rest. Drink this Vanilla Latté I'm making, understood?"

Bemused, he watched her nodded unsurely but quick enough to suggest she was quite used to this behaviour.

British citizen had polite manners and so it was a bit surprising to see the woman had little inclination to order her to sit beside a stranger, nevermind the full establishment.

(Probably not British, Italian then? She does have the barest accent-probably from living here for so long, trademark bronze skin and wavy ashen blonde hair, quite tall too.)

The girl shuffled closer and gave him an apologetic smile that looked so heavy with fatique that the slight paranoid simmer of Flame dissipated. "Is this seat taken?"
"No."
"May I?"
He gestured with his hand, "Be my guest."

As she moved to sit he noticed how fluid the movement seemed, like she had been trained to exert the least energy for the best outcome, but she was civilian, because assassins have quiet steps even if the person itself was loud.

"It's a fine morning, is it not?" She cheerily started.

Now on a closer distance hearing her voice was startling. He would not have put the soft, husky voice that addresed him to her face.

Those blue eyes met black without flinching, a feat only a handful could boast. And he marveled at the intimacy in her eyes, as if the two of them were already complicit in some delightful brand of mischief.

He peered outside---cloudy and grey, how gloomy, what's fine about it? He snorted. "If you're dying perhaps."

When she laughed, the windchime-like echo thrilled him in a way he'd never known; it was as clear as rainwater.

"I'm already dying either way," she sniffed. "Might be why I see it that way."

He paused. Took the time to study the paleness of her skin, or how her thin body trembled ever so finely.

She showed signs of long-term malnutrition, but recently developed a more healthy diet, he would hazard a guess, potentially abused, sleepless night, constant shivering, and fatigue.

There was no lie in her body language or the grim emotion behind her eyes.

"...Dying?" He confirmed slowly.

Though he didn't have the faintest idea of why, the rigid line of her shoulders actually relaxed at the confirmation.

She even smiled, almost relieved at the confirmation.

"I met a kind of adversary two days ago." Was this the punchline where he was supposed to laugh? This was starting to sound like a joke, but there was no slightest shift so it's not exactly a lie.

Not half-truth... She omitted too many things and had just summed it too simply. He'd play along with this and tip-toed the truth.

"What's your name?"

"My friends call me Blanc." (White.)

He hummed. "French?" She pursed her lips, reluctant.

"My Mother's half-French." She answered vaguely, a bit strained.
"You're not British?"
"Quarter."

(Half-French parent, that explained the trace of accent probably from childhood living with her Mother. She looked half-Italian though with that blue eyes and sun-kissed skin if it's not paling under the illness (?) Possibly half-Italian, and a quarter-French-British then.)

"Your full name?"

"Blanche Cavelli." (Cavelli, Italian surname. Bingo.)

"What do your enemies call you then?"

She blinked as if surprised he followed along her (not) charade and slowly grinned. The twinkle in her eyes throughly humoured and amused.

"Blanc!" She growled, baring her teeth. Then she laughed.

Her laughter was contagious. When he laughed too, the café owner came over and served the Latté to the girl across him.

"Having a nice chat?" Laura grinned teasingly.

He smoothly answered before the girl---Blanche, not girl anymore---did. "Of course Ma'am. How wouldn't it when my partner (it sounded pleasant to call her that) is such a charming young lady?"

Laura stared and guffawed, "True that! Ooh I like you lad!" While Blanche seemed to blush a rather fetching red and sent a playful glare to her employer (she looked adoring, a maternal figure replacing her somewhat nonexistent Mother that she hesitated to talk about?)

He chuckled along.

As Laura panted, she regained her breathing with a few deep gulp of air. Smirking, she gave him a wink.

"Enjoy talking to each other then! Please, don't let me bother the two of you. I don't want to be the thirdwheel of a budding friendship."
"Laura!" Off she went, snickering under her breath.

Blanche huffed, muttering something like 'That woman', 'Seriously?' with fond exasperation. She sipped the Latté and sighed contently.

He stared closely, catching her attention quickly. (Hm... Very alert.) He raised an eyebrow. Childishly, she stuck out her tongue.

Leaning forward, right into her personal space, "I could do many things to that tongue if you continue," he whispered suggestively. Blindsided most likely, since she pratically glowed like a traffic light with wide eyes.

She gaped, opening and closing her mouth. "Careful, something might get inside your mouth." If it's even possible, she blushed a brighter red reaching until the tip of her ears.

She glared, looking very harmless. Then again not many things and people made him afraid.

But, he found himself at the edge of his seat mentally when he saw the defiant glint in her eyes.

"I will be polite and ignore the innuendo said innocently there." He smirked, he'd forgotten how amusing dry British sarcasm was.

This girl was amazing. Fierce, full of life.

"Don't mind me, I'm just appreciating the fine company."

Before she could retaliate more, pattering of small feets brought their attention. "Blanc! Blanc!" A group of children made its way to their table. She oomphed when they launched themselves to her as she caught them and fell out of the chair.

She laughed heartily, sitting herself on the floor with a couple of the children on her lap.

All of them stood and she picked one five years-old brunette girl up and situated her at her hips. "Good morning, what can I help you guys?" She asked them with a smile.

They jumped giddily, raising their hands with their choice of games.

"Let's play tag this time, Blanc!"
"No, hide-and-seek is better!"
"I want a story!"
Jumbles of requests flew in a rapid pace and he mourned the loss of the silence and enjoyable conversation. He wondered if she would be annoyed, most women were, well, the bitchy ones.

Instead, she indulgently considered the requests and turned to the girl she carried. "What do you suggest we do?" The brunette peered up shyly and twiddled with her fingers. "Um, will you play the piano then? It's been so long." She chuckled, "Sure."

"Come on you guys, I'm playing the piano." The children cheered happily, though some are a bit disappointed. She looked down as she felt her top tugged. "Next time we're playing tag, ok Blanc?" A red-headed boy asked while clutching her blouse.

Her lips formed a heart-wrenching smile of longing. "We'll see." She patted the boy's head softly as if scared to hurt him.

(.....She did say she was dying. She wasn't sure she would be here for that tag. How long until she--?)

"How about you?" It took a second for him to realize the inquiry was for him.

"Will you play for me?" He asked.

She nodded. "If you'll listen," Blanche said, and held out her free hand. He took her hand and let her lead him, a little worried he might do so forever, following wherever she went.

The children followed too.

It was a quant corner of the café, the black piano placed snugly against the cream-coloured wall, decorated with a small potted flower---irises---placed on top of the intrument.

Letting go of his hand, she lowered the little girl she carried down carefully. She sat on the stool and opened the cover.

Then she began to play a series of notes that entwined like lovers, curled like the curls in her hair.

Sadness and sorrow clung to the melody, it made people ache, the children lulled.

The café ballad stopped, if only so that the beautiful chords wouldn't be overlapped, so that it could be heard more.

She played a breathtaking, lingering song.

Slowly, when the children began to yawn one by one their parents came and picked them up, giving Blanche a smile of gratitude and a nod.

"Thank you for entertaining him." The parent said as he cradled his red-headed son closely.
"It's always a pleasure." She smiled fondly. The family left the café after the mother finished her tea.

Reborn continued to watch her. He stepped towards her and sat on the same stool as her. She didn't mind it was a little cramped.

"What song is that?"
She slowed her pace. "A lullaby my Father always sang for me since I was a baby. He died on an accident when I was five."

He grimly offered his condolences. Everyone died eventually and as a hitman he knew it all the more. He didn't know the man, he couldn't offer his regret, but he had a feeling her Father was proud of his kind daughter.

She gave him a small quirk of her lips.

The lack of conversation after that wasn't awkward, it was companionable. The piano notes stretched through between them.

"Will you teach me to play?" He asked.

He wanted more time with Blanche---a strange feeling for him. He wanted to sit close and watch the sunlight shimmer in her hair, to memorize the haunting rhythms of her fingers as she pressed gently the black and white keys.

She stopped. He played a few random notes. He was able to play professionally, he was well-versed in many things, though he wouldn't be able to remotely put his feelings into it like the music that had flowed from Blanche did.

She stared and leaned close to him. "Something tells me you already know how to play," she commented accusingly. (He did, but she didn't need to know that.)

He knew she was teasing, and he was impressed that she had guessed correctly.

"Your name?" He blinked. He hadn't given it to her yet?
"Reborn."

She raised her eyebrow, incredulous. He raised one in return. What could he say, he was cautious that way. She huffed, accepting it and understanding.

"Well, Reborn." She paused, pondering.

"Meet me here tomorrow." She glanced through the glass wall at the sky. "When the sun sits in the same place, you sit in the same place."

Then she laughed, tucked the piano cover and skipped away, leaving him awestruck and breathless.