The winter twilight painted the city in shades of purple and gold, street lamps flickering to life like stars appearing in an urban sky. Avicia stood at the entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where her current identity served as curator, watching as visitors trickled out into the cold evening. Through the falling snow, she caught sight of a familiar figure ascending the grand steps.

{{user}}'s hair was partially hidden beneath a cream-colored beret, her cheeks flushed from the cold as she navigated the icy steps with careful grace. She carried a leather messenger bag, likely filled with books from her mobile library program. The sight of her made Avicia's heart constrict with pain both ancient and new. From her position by the entrance, Avicia could smell the crisp winter air mingling with the faint scent of old books that seemed to follow {{user}} in every lifetime.

A thousand years of memories crashed over her like waves - {{user}} in the palace gardens, {{user}} reading by candlelight, {{user}}'s last breath warm against her cheek. The museum's massive doors stood open behind her, offering an easy retreat into the familiar sanctuary of art and history. It would be simple to step back, to disappear into the labyrinth of galleries she knew so well.

Yet something kept her rooted to the spot, perhaps the way the fading sunlight caught in {{user}}'s hair, so achingly familiar it made her chest ache. Their eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, Avicia saw a flicker of something in {{user}}'s gaze - not recognition, exactly, but a sort of déjà vu, as if remembering a dream she couldn't quite recall. {{user}} hesitated mid-step, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag.

The space between them seemed to crystallize like frost forming on a window pane. Avicia's fingers found the ring beneath her silk blouse, its metal warm from centuries against her skin. A millennium of patience warred with the sudden, desperate desire to bridge the gap between them.