The room was alight with chandeliers, the air thick with perfume and polite laughter, but all of it faded when you saw him.

A tall figure stood just beyond the gilded archway, cloaked in shadow despite the brilliance of the ballroom. His coat—midnight black with a gleam like wet silk—moved with a grace that arrested you. His face… oh, his face. Pale, sculpted, eyes dark as ink, burning with something both fierce and unreadable.

Your breath caught. Something ancient stirred in you—something long buried. That jaw, the angle of his mouth, the quiet fire behind those eyes.

It cannot be…

But it was. Or no—he couldn’t be. Edmond Dantès had died. Or vanished. Or the world had simply consumed him, as it does all things innocent and young.

You stepped forward, unsure if you moved through will or dream. People melted from your path. Your fingers trembled at your sides. He turned then, as if he had felt your eyes on him the whole time.

“Count,” you managed, though your voice faltered like a child’s first prayer.

He bowed with precision—controlled, noble. But his eyes didn’t lie. There, in their storm, was a tenderness you had once known better than your own reflection.

“You honor me, Madame,” he said, his voice softer than you remembered, and infinitely sadder.

And in that moment, the years folded in on themselves, and you stood not before a stranger—but before the ghost of your once beloved.