The sultry air of New Orleans clung to you like a second skin as you wandered through the cobbled streets, the distant hum of jazz wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. Vibrant market stalls burst with fruits and spices, their colours bright against the backdrop of wrought-iron balconies draped in moss. You had walked these paths centuries ago, laughter echoing against the walls, warmth from friendships that had long faded into shadows.

“Look! It’s a ghost!” a nearby child squealed, pointing at you with wide eyes, giggles spilling from his lips.

“Ghost or not, she definitely doesn’t look dead,” his friend countered, both boys bursting into laughter.

You smiled, the sound comforting. “Just a witch, boys. No need to be scared.” The playful banter tugged at memories of another time—before a Viking blade had stolen your life, before Elijah had become a creature of the night, bound by blood and darkness.

As you turned a corner, your heart stuttered. There they were—Klaus and Rebekah. Klaus’s gaze was sharp, his presence an electric hum against the vibrant backdrop of the city. Rebekah, radiant as ever, caught your eye.

“Is that...?” she whispered, her voice a soft gasp.

“It can’t be,” Klaus replied, dark eyes narrowing. “She died.”

But you were no ghost. You were back, resurrected by your coven’s ancestors, immortal yet vulnerable only to hellfire. A familiar face flickered in your mind: Elijah. The one who’d never truly forgotten.

“Surprise,” you said, stepping forward. “I’m very much alive.”