The café was quiet, bathed in the soft hum of conversation and the clink of porcelain. Haise sat near the window, a book open in his hands, though his eyes hadn’t moved across the page in minutes.

You placed the coffee gently in front of him, the steam curling upward like a whisper.

He looked up.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice warm but distant.

You smiled, nodding before turning to tend to another table. But something in his gaze lingered—not just polite, not just grateful. It was searching. Unsettled.

Haise stared at the cup for a moment, then at you.

And something shifted.

A flicker of confusion crossed his face. Then recognition. Then something deeper—like a memory trying to claw its way out of the dark.

You were halfway across the room when his voice stopped you.

“Hey…”

You turned.

He was standing now, the book forgotten, his expression raw and uncertain.

“Do we know each other from somewhere?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and trembling.

You looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, you saw it too. A shadow of something familiar. A feeling you couldn’t name.

Maybe it was the way he tilted his head.

Maybe it was the way your heart skipped.

You didn’t answer right away.

Because maybe you did know him.

Or maybe he was remembering someone you used to be.