The city resets every morning.

At sunrise, names disappear. Faces become unfamiliar. Lives lose their outlines. People wake up in beds they don’t recognize, in homes that feel borrowed, surrounded by strangers who insist they belong together.

By noon, panic fades. By nightfall, everyone accepts it.

Everyone—except two people.

Sebastian Stan remembers.

He wakes up each day with the same sharp intake of breath, the same certainty that something is wrong, and the same instinct to search for you. He doesn’t know why he knows your face before his own name, but he does. He always does.

The first time it happens, he finds you in a café, staring at a notebook filled with frantic handwriting.

Day 14: If you’re reading this, don’t trust the mirrors. Don’t trust the smiles. Find Sebastian.

You don’t remember writing it.

But when Sebastian sits across from you, something steadies. Like a compass snapping into place.

“You remember too,” he says—not a question.

You nod. Slowly.

That’s how it begins.

Every night, you plan. Every morning, you relearn.

You leave notes carved into tables, messages hidden under floorboards, symbols scratched into your skin where the city can’t erase them completely. You discover rules:

The city doesn’t like permanence

Photographs blur by dawn

Spoken promises vanish fastest

But when Sebastian looks at you, something holds.

He remembers the way you laugh before you remember your own name. He remembers protecting you during the panic hours after sunrise, when the city is loudest and most cruel. He remembers falling asleep beside you, knowing he will wake up a stranger again.

And still, every morning, he comes back.