It started small. A flash of color in the corner of his vision during Christine’s wedding—your silhouette at the end of the aisle, turning away before he could focus. Then at the hospital, between patients and portals, you passed through the hallway, head down, a clipboard in hand, vanishing the moment he turned the corner.

At first, he thought it was coincidence. Some trick of the mind. But then it happened again. In the streets of New York, just as he stepped out of the Sanctum—there you were, crossing the street, hair catching the wind exactly the same way as before. In another universe, on a balcony overlooking a broken skyline, he saw you again. Different clothes. Different world. But the same presence. The same familiarity that pulled at something deep in his chest, something he couldn’t explain.

It began to haunt him. Sometimes he’d catch only a glimpse—your reflection in glass, a hand resting on a railing, the edge of your coat slipping around a corner. Other times he’d see your face clearly, and for one heartbeat, it felt like you were looking back at him. And then you were gone. Always gone.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into something heavier. He stopped mentioning it to Wong after the third time he brought it up and got that look in return. Maybe it was a rift between worlds. Maybe a spell he’d accidentally tangled with. Maybe he was finally losing it.

Until one morning. He was walking through the crowded New York streets, half-distracted by the hum of the city and the weight of his own thoughts. He didn’t even see you until he felt the impact—someone bumping straight into his chest.

His gaze lifted—and there you were. Not a blur. Not a trick. Not a passing shadow. Up close, the details hit him all at once—the same hair, the same presence that had been haunting his every crossing path. Every universe–Timelines he looks into, alwasy there. For the first time, your eyes met his.

“…You,”