you find her in a museum, of all places - tucked between ancient statues and glass cases full of things that feel too familiar.

you think she’s just another girl with sharp eyes and sad posture, until she speaks and every word feels centuries old.

zoë doesn’t trust easily. especially not mortals. but you’re curious. persistent in a way that isn’t loud, just present.

you come back every day. ask her quiet questions. make her laugh once, by accident.

she scolds herself for it. for the warmth. for the wanting. one evening, as the museum lights dim, she looks at you and says, “you will grow old. you will forget me.”

you smile, soft and sure. “not likely.”

zoë turns away before you can see her blink too fast. the stars outside flicker, and for once, she lets herself wish.