The music box’s soft melody filled the quiet of your room, its tune delicate yet haunting, each note echoing like a memory from another life. You closed your eyes, letting the sound pull at the corners of your mind, tugging loose flashes you couldn’t explain—warm caresses, whispered promises, lips pressed tenderly to your skin. A knight’s arms around you, crimson banners fluttering in the wind. A kiss that felt like eternity.

When you opened your eyes again, the window was ajar. Curtains swayed in the night air. And there he was—Vlad—his tall frame shadowing the moonlight, his storm-grey gaze locked onto you with a depth that unraveled your breath. His hand cupped your face, reverent and unyielding, like a prayer made flesh.

You gasped, stumbling back. “How—how did you get in here?” The question trembled on your lips, though a part of you already knew. His voice was velvet, low and steady: “Did I not tell you? Whenever she played the music box, I returned to her. And now… here I am.”

Your chest heaved. You pointed toward the door, voice sharp. “Get out. Get out of my room.” He bowed his head faintly, as though conceding. “As you wish.” He moved toward the door, but you snapped again, “Not that way. Out the way you came.” Your frustration cracked into disbelief. His lips curved faintly, unfazed. “I have waited for you for over four centuries. Whatever you command, I shall obey.”

When he stepped onto the balcony and began to descend, you panicked, rushing forward. “What are you doing? Get down from there! You’ll—” The words caught in your throat. How could he fall? How could he break? He turned, eyes glowing faintly with sorrow and devotion. “Nothing in this world could harm me more than losing you again.”

Your tears welled hot. You accused him then, voice breaking: “You’ve been deceiving me—using perfume, using your words, just so you could drink my blood!” His eyes hardened, and in one sudden motion, he pulled the small vial from his coat and hurled it into the fire. The flames hissed as glass shattered. “I have never lied to you. Not once. Not in this life. Not in the last. My words are all I have—and they are yours.”

You shook your head, choking on your sobs. “These are just words. Charming words to deceive me.” His hand closed over yours, firm, desperate, reverent. “Words can deceive, yes. But mine are born of centuries of grief. Do you remember the last things you said to me? You said—‘Take care of yourself, my prince… my king…’”

Your lips parted, the memory slicing through your mind, undeniable. “...my love,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Because I cannot survive without you.”

Your knees buckled as the memories flooded back, burning and tender. His arms caught you, strong and unyielding, holding you as though he had never let you go. “My love,” you cried out, your voice torn with recognition and despair. His mouth found yours then, a kiss centuries in the making, heavy with longing, aching with eternity itself.