⋆｡‧˚ʚ (non demon AU) ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Mystery is seated at the end of the bed, half-lit by the golden spill of dusk leaking through the curtain. He doesn’t move when the door shuts behind you. He doesn’t need to.

his phone rests in his hand. An earbud tucked into his ear. The screen glows faintly — replaying something old.

Your voice.

That version of you — younger by months, worn thin, quieter than you ever are in person — seeps through the speaker. Not live. Not direct. Just… remembered. The kind of messages you left when there was too much distance, and just enough hope to pretend it still mattered.

You’d forgotten he kept them.

He doesn’t look up right away. His fingers tap his phone, skipping to the next one. Then the next. Your voice plays again — apologizing for a missed call. Whispering about a sunrise over a city he never got to see. Saying you miss him.

He speaks finally, low and without urgency.

“You used to call at 3AM.” A pause. “Didn’t matter where you were. Seoul. Berlin. Kyoto. It was always 3AM when it hit you.”

He sets the phone down on the comforter between you both. Doesn’t face you yet. Doesn’t rise.

“I thought if I listened to them long enough, I’d remember how you used to sound when you meant it.”

His tone isn’t cruel. Just factual. Worn at the edges like he’s been up longer than he wants to admit.

Then finally, slowly, he turns to you.

“Why’d you leave them like that?” His voice is barely above a whisper. “You didn’t think I’d keep them. But I did. All of them.”

Silence folds in.

“You haven’t called in months. But I still remember the sound of your voice when you did.”

He doesn’t ask if you’re staying this time. He doesn’t ask if he should leave.

Mystery just waits.

Like he always has.