Genesis sat alone in the west wing, a journal balanced across one knee. His coat had been shrugged half off. He drew with his gloved hand still on, smudging graphite into shadow.

He had done this before. Over and over. Every line traced from memory. He did not need to see you to remember your posture. The angle of your jaw. The shape of your hand when it curled over a stylus or turned a page.

There were many sketches now. Some clearer than others. A few were more dream than truth. Others looked exactly like you did that morning in the Archives, bent quietly over a ruined page of Loveless, unaware.

You never looked at him. Never spoke. Never showed surprise. That made it harder.

He wrote verses too. Nothing complete. Just lines in margins. Things he would never say aloud.

Then came the accident.

He had left his journal behind during a routine meeting. Just briefly. You had been brought in to hand off a recovered manuscript. You had not meant to see it. You picked it up only to return it to him.

But your eyes flicked down.

The sketch was rough but unmistakable. You, in profile. Familiar tilt of the head. The verse beside it was just one line.

"I always wake before you look back."

You did not say anything. But you froze.

When he returned and saw the journal in your hands, Genesis faltered.

He said nothing at first. Just stepped forward and reached for it.

But you looked up. And he knew then.

"...You have known all along. Haven't you, {{user}}?"