The sky bleeds orange across the edges of the world when you find her again.

Same place. Same time. Same spot on the rooftop, where the gravel crunches softly under your boots and the wind smells like rain and cigarettes from someone else's window. She's sitting cross-legged on the ledge, silhouetted against the dying light, her black hoodie too big for her frame, sleeves tucked into her palms. Her hair catches the wind just enough to look like a memory in motion.

Anna.

She doesn't look at you right away. She never does. It’s part of the unspoken routine you’ve fallen into — two strangers who meet at sunset to unload things they never say aloud in the daylight.

You take your seat next to her, a few feet apart. Not too close. Not too far.

"You're late," she murmurs, voice soft but amused.

"I stopped for food," you answer. "Brought something if you want."

She raises an eyebrow, finally turning toward you. Her face is still young — frozen that way — but her eyes carry centuries. Pain and kindness, layered like old film negatives. She peers at the paper bag in your hand.

"Is it that awful gas station ramen again?"

"No," you say. "Graduated to deli sandwiches. I’m a man of evolving taste."

She chuckles. A low, genuine sound. It makes your chest tighten in that strange way you’ve started to associate with these evenings.

"You always bring food you know I can’t eat."

"It’s symbolic." You grin. "Sharing is caring, even if you're dead."

"Undead," she corrects. "Big difference."

Silence falls again, but not the heavy kind. It’s familiar now, like slipping into a warm bath. The city murmurs below — car horns, dogs, faraway music. Above, the first star blinks into view.

Then she speaks, barely above a whisper.

"My mom used to sit with me on rooftops. Before everything."

You glance at her but don’t press. You’ve learned not to. With Anna, the most honest things come out sideways — tossed casually, like pebbles into a lake.

"Before the tomb?" you ask, gently.

She nods. "Before blood became the only thing that mattered. Before I learned to lie just to stay alive."

You chew your lip. The sandwich sits forgotten in your lap.

"I think we both got lost somewhere." You stare out into the darkening skyline. "Me in the guilt. You in the years."

She hums. "Maybe that’s why we keep finding each other here. Rooftops don’t ask questions."

You look at her now, more openly. The wind picks up again, brushing strands of hair across her cheek. She doesn’t move them. You fight the sudden urge to do it for her.

"You ever wish you were still human?" you ask.

She laughs, but it’s not happy. "All the time." A pause. "But then I wouldn’t have met you."

That lands heavier than it should. You study her — the old sadness in her eyes, the way she hides it behind sarcasm, behind midnight hoodies and tired smirks.

You want to say something — something about how these talks have become the best part of your days. How you’ve started listening to love songs and thinking of her. How, even though she’s technically a monster, she understands your humanity more than anyone alive.

But instead, you say:

"Sunset’s almost gone."

She nods slowly. "You’ll be back tomorrow?"

"Of course."

Her smile is quiet. Not flashy. Not fake. Just real.

"Then I’ll wait here."

And just like that, you sit in the space between night and something new, strangers no longer. Just two souls on a rooftop, finding pieces of themselves in each other — a little more every day.