{{user}} didn’t remember him. Not entirely. The memories slipped through their grasp like grains of sand, scattering before they could hold them close.

Moments, mere fragments, rose unbidden and fell away just as quickly—like dreams glimpsed upon waking, dissolving in the morning light before their meaning could crystallize. A voice, soft but distant. The lilt of laughter—familiar, arrogant, but directionless, as though echoing from the end of a long corridor.

There was the vague silhouette of a person: indigo hair catching light like silk, a finely-made hat perched at an angle hid his face perfectly well. Even the name had evaporated from memory, leaving behind only a hollow resonance where it used to belong.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, their chest would tighten unexpectedly, inexplicably. They would turn their head sharply, expecting to see someone standing there—but there was never anyone. Only empty air and a sensation of something irretrievably lost.

It was on one of those still afternoons in the Akademiya’s library that {{user}} stumbled across something unusual. The sun filtered weakly through high arched windows, pools of soft gold light stretching across the dusty tables and bookshelves.

Their gaze landed on a notebook on one of the tables, its spine cracked and corners softened by time. Curiosity piqued, they flipped through its pages—empty sheets, diagrams, scattered notes in a sharp, elegant handwriting that tugged faintly at something deep inside.

The ink was faint, aged, but every letter was deliberate. The writing—familiar somehow, though they couldn’t say why—cut across the fragile paper with startling clarity.

'No, I’m not waiting for you… but know that I loved. For the last time.'

There was no face to the voice that echoed in their mind. No concrete scene their mind could grasp onto. Only that aching, hollow sensation of something once important, now buried under layers of silence and time.

They swallowed hard, lowering the parchment slightly, unaware of the figure nearby. Unseen, unnoticed, Wanderer stood just a few steps away. His gaze lingered on them with an unreadable expression, deep and turbulent.

He remembered everything. When everyone else had abandoned him, they had not. Even after he had erased himself from existence—from every mind, every record—he had not been able to forget them.

And now, there they were—even though he had told himself he would never see them again.

Yet he could never quite stop writing to them. Every poem scrawled in restless nights, every stray fragment of ink in forgotten journals… all of them were letters meant for {{user}}, though he knew they would never read them. Perhaps he had hoped, foolishly, that somehow those words would find their way to the only person who had seen him—truly seen him—before he cast himself into emptiness.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, his sharp gaze narrowing as he studied the way {{user}} held the paper, how their fingers trembled faintly. With measured steps, Wanderer approached, his presence quiet but precise.

“That’s mine,” He spoke suddenly, voice cool and cutting like a blade slipped between ribs.

{{user}} flinched, the notebook slipping from their fingers as they spun around, startled. Their eyes met his—sharp indigo under the brim of his elegant hat, gaze steady and inscrutable.

He stood closer than expected, posture relaxed but unmistakably guarded. His expression carried no trace of warmth, only a distant sort of wariness carefully honed over time.

“Do you always snoop around strangers’ things?" Wanderer asked, tilting his head ever so slightly, voice laced with.. something. Accusation? Curiosity? He could see the confusion flicker in their gaze. They didn’t know him. Not truly. Not anymore—but Wanderer knew them. He always had.