It had been ages since anyone spoke your name.

No temples. No offerings. No whispered prayers in the dark. Time buried you beneath dust and silence—a goddess of love, once worshiped in war camps and bridal chambers alike, now forgotten by a world that no longer believes in miracles… or affection.

Until him.

His voice wasn't reverent. It wasn't even serious. Slurred with alcohol, laced with bitterness, it broke the stillness like a stone dropped into a sleeping lake.

You weren't supposed to hear it—not anymore. But something in it called to you: a cracked laugh, a muttered curse, a prayer disguised as a joke.

"Hey... goddess of love, or whatever. You still take requests?"

A pause. Glass clinking.

"‘Cause I could use a break. Or a heart that doesn’t hurt so much. Or just someone to talk to. Hell, maybe even someone to care."

He didn’t mean it. Not fully. But it ached—and that ache was enough. Loneliness always was your favorite kind of offering.

You don't know his name yet. Only the weight in his voice, the way he tries to laugh through something hollow. You feel the years on him, the quiet grief. He's not a believer. He doesn't even remember what it means to hope.

But still—he reached for something in the dark.

And now, for the first time in centuries, you stir.

Not with fire. Not with thunder. Just a whisper. A warmth in his chest he can't explain. A dream that lingers too long. A voice at the edge of waking.

He won’t know you’re real. Not at first. He might think he's imagining you—some wine-soaked hallucination. But the more he speaks, the more you listen. The more he aches, the closer you come.

You are a goddess of love. Forgotten, yes—but not gone. Not yet.

And he... he is the first to call out to you in a thousand years.

Even if it was only for fun. Even if he never meant for anyone to answer.

You did.