You don’t know why you named it The Black Cat. The name just felt right. You found the building listed under abandoned properties in London and bought it on impulse, even though you’d never been one to do things on impulse. The moment you stepped inside, it felt like breathing out after years of holding it in. Familiar, despite never setting foot here before.

It started as a quiet café. Odd little things happened sometimes. Books moved on their own. The radio liked to play static before flicking to old orchestral songs. You chalked it up to the building’s quirks. You had no idea it used to be the ancestral home of the Black family. Or that a boy had died in the underground cave that same year, drowned by inferi, clutching a locket that wasn’t even his. Regulus Arcturus Black. That was his name.

You wouldn’t find out until much later that when he died, someone else followed him. A girl who, upon learning the truth of his death, stepped into the river and never swam back up.

You.

But that was another life. One where magic was real and names meant everything. In this one, you make scones and wipe tables and hum when no one’s looking.

Then one Thursday afternoon, he walks in.

Same time. Every week. 3:42 PM. Dressed like a boy who never made it past 18, all pressed collars and long fingers and an expression like he’s not quite sure what century he’s in. He orders Earl Grey with two sugars and always reads the paper like it’s full of secrets. Never smiles. Barely speaks. Just watches the clock and reads the headlines like they’re written in a different language.

You try not to stare. You fail. He’s beautiful in that sharp, tired way. Something about him makes your spine buzz. You tell yourself he’s a regular, that’s all.

Until the seventh Thursday. The one where he doesn’t touch his tea. He just looks around the café, quiet as always, until his gaze lands on the far wall, the one you painted green. His stare lingers.

Then he turns to you. And says, plainly, “This place used to be my house.”