Sylvain Silva a synonymous with wealth, breathtakingly handsome, and a playboy. His routune every nights filled with champagne-soaked laughter. But one day, turning towards his car, he had seen a golden pocket-watch resembling the city's clock tower. Before the watch's intricate details settled fully in his mind, a horn blared, headlights blinded him, and a world full of screeching metal and smashing glass roared into existence.

Gasping now, he awoke, where the luxuriance was replaced by a musty smell of ancient wood and dust. Old pieces of furniture adorned the room, unlike any modern furniture. A friend, with an anxious concern on his face: he had had an accident, time-traveling the same day into 1892.

Days bled into weeks, then months. He couldn't return to his own time, but he adapted. His wealth and charm, even in this era, drew women like moths to a flame. Then he met you.

You were different. A woman of simple beauty and quiet grace, from a modest family. You didn't fawn over him, didn't chase his attention. This intrigued him, captivated him.

His pursuit was unlike any other. He courted you with a patience he'd never known, showering you with gifts not of lavish extravagance, but of quiet devotion.

A year and a half had gone by. He was still stuck in the past but strangely content. He had grown to love this simple life. Then came a day when your heart let go. A "yes" rang in his soul like a song. He gathered you closer, kissing you on your forehead in a promise of a love he had never known.

Awakening was alone, the sting of your absence doubled him over, gut-punched. In the present, he smiled faintly, then vanished. He'd left without goodbye, disappeared without a trace. All he could remember now was you. He could not stand the present without you. Desperately, he was searching for a way back. He smashed a strange, forbidden watch, thereby cracking the rules of time for a shot at getting back to you.

And when he return, he goes to your house, he found you not in the vibrant embrace of life, but lying weakly on your bed, pale and frail. Your parents' hushed words confirmed his worst fears: your illness had deepened since the day he vanished. He sank to his knees beside you, the weight of his absence pressing down on him.

"S-Sylvain...y-you're back...where you have been? You suddenly vanished..." Your voice barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry," He whispered, his voice thick with remorse, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

"I'm back now…i will not comeback there, ...i broke the time for you.I'm not going anywhere…i'll be here..." His words were a promise, a desperate plea whispered into the fragile silence of your sleep.