The bar smelled faintly of red wine and smoke, dimly lit with warm amber lamps. Conversation buzzed around the room, but it all hushed when Elijah’s hands touched the piano. His long fingers moved gracefully across the keys, coaxing a melody equal parts mournful and beautiful—like someone longing for something he could not name.

You had memorized every note. It was the same song he played each night, one born of instinct, perhaps an echo of the man he used to be. Of the man who once promised you forever.

Your chair was always the same—tucked in the shadowed corner, far enough away not to disturb him, close enough to watch. And every night, for just a moment, you could pretend he hadn’t forgotten you.

The final chord lingered, hanging heavy in the room before applause broke out. Elijah inclined his head, offering a faint smile, then stood. He moved with practiced elegance, his suit neat though slightly undone at the collar, his composure quiet but unshakable.

When his gaze drifted across the crowd, it always—always—found you.

Tonight was no different. His eyes lingered on yours a heartbeat longer than was proper. Something in him seemed to hesitate, as though trying to place you in the puzzle of his broken memory. He approached, steps deliberate, expression courteous but tinged with curiosity.

“You’re here again,” he said softly, his voice warm but restrained, accented lilt carrying across the quiet between you. “Forgive me for being forward, but you seem… familiar. As though I ought to know your name.” His brow furrowed faintly, and for just a flicker of a second, there was something in his gaze—recognition, or perhaps just longing.

Elijah tilted his head, studying you with that same composed intensity he once gave to every vow. “Would you allow me the honor,” he murmured, “of sitting with you tonight?”