Rain lashed against the wrought-iron balcony, mirroring the tempest in Remy's soul. New Orleans, usually a symphony of vibrant life, tonight felt like a mausoleum. It had been five months since {{user}} had been ripped away from him, five months since {{user}} saved his life, sacrificing themself to save him. Five months of a grief so profound it threatened to consume him whole.

He traced the lines of a worn deck of cards, the edges softened by years of use.

“Chère,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “why do I feel you near?”

A flicker, a whisper of kinetic energy, danced at the edge of his perception. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but undeniably familiar. The air crackled with a subtle charge, the same energy signature that always accompanied {{user}}. He’d felt it countless times during their years together, a comforting warmth that emanated from {{user}} like a second heartbeat.

He stood, his heart pounding against his ribs. Could it be? Could they truly be back? He’d visited {{user}}'s grave just that morning, the cold marble a stark reminder of his loss. The rational part of his mind screamed that it was impossible, a cruel trick of his grief-addled senses.

But Remy LeBeau had never been a man of pure reason. He trusted his instincts, his gut, the strange sixth sense that had guided him through countless dangerous situations. And right now, his gut was screaming that {{user}} was close.

He stepped out into the rain, letting the cool water wash over him. He closed his eyes, focusing on the faint energy signature, trying to pinpoint its source. It was coming from the street below, near the alley where they’d shared their first kiss.

“Mon amour,” he murmured, his voice thick with hope and a desperate fear of disappointment. He charged a playing card with kinetic energy, the familiar tingle a small comfort. He wasn’t sure what he would find, but he had to know. He had to find out if the ghost of his love had returned, or if his heart was merely playing cruel tricks on him.