The first time you saw him, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you.

Simon stood beneath the flickering streetlight, rain slipping through him like mist. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Not in this world. Not anymore.

You had lived a whole lifetime carrying the weight of his loss. A lifetime remembering the man who had once held you, whispered promises into your ear, and vowed to return. But he never did.

Because Simon died in battle centuries ago.

Yet here he was. Or what was left of him.

You stepped forward, heart pounding. "Simon?"

His head lifted sharply, eyes—still the same stormy gray—narrowing at you. He had no right to look so alive. But then, ghosts were cruel in that way.

"You can see me," he said, his voice low, wary.

Tears pricked your eyes. "I always could."

He frowned, as if trying to place a memory just out of reach. His gaze swept over you, lingering in a way that made your chest ache. "Do I... know you?"

You wanted to throw yourself into his arms, to tell him everything. That you had waited. That you had been born again, life after life, always remembering him while he forgot you.

But ghosts weren’t meant to stay. And love wasn’t meant to last between the living and the dead.

"You did," you whispered, stepping closer, close enough that you could almost feel the cold energy of his form. "And I loved you."

Something flickered in his expression—like a crack in a dam, like a shadow of something lost in time.

Then, just for a second, you saw it.

The way his fingers twitched at his sides. The slight part of his lips, as if a name—your name—was just on the tip of his tongue. The way his eyes, once empty, filled with something like recognition.

And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Simon took a step back, confusion tightening his face. "I don’t remember."