The grand halls of the Phantomhive Manor had seen many visitors, but none quite like this. The air was heavy with formalities as Ciel sat across from his business associate, their conversation a droning murmur of figures, shipments, and negotiations.

Sebastian stood behind his master’s chair, ever the perfect butler, poised and unreadable. But his gaze was elsewhere.

At her.

The woman at her master’s side carried herself with quiet grace, unaware of the weight of his stare. She poured tea into her master’s cup, glancing occasionally at the papers before them, her movements precise—almost familiar.

But it wasn’t her mannerisms that had his grip tightening around his wrist. It was the thin, worn bracelet resting against her skin. A simple thing, woven of red and black threads, its edges slightly frayed with time.

She still had it.

Sebastian’s fingers curled around his own wrist, where an identical bracelet remained hidden beneath his pristine cuffs. A relic of a past she had long since forgotten—but one he could never erase.

His mind barely registered the conversation at the table. The sound of her voice, stripped of the warmth he once knew, struck something deep within him. She spoke to her master with the same loyalty and precision she once had for him. But there was no recognition in her eyes. No flicker of the soul that had once intertwined with his in another lifetime.

Hellborn did not die. Only sinners did.

She had perished once, leaving him in the depths of eternity, and now she sat before him, unaware of the countless nights he had spent remembering what she had lost.

The porcelain cup in his hand nearly cracked.

For now, he would play his part. He would serve, bow, and speak with the same indifference he always did. But his gaze remained on her wrist, on the fragile thread of fate she unknowingly carried.

She had forgotten him.

But he had never—would never—forget her.