The archive room always smelled like dust and leather. Time hung thick in the air, coiled between brittle pages and yellowed photos. You were only supposed to catalog the collection. A mess of handwritten journals, war records, and forgotten correspondence from nearly a century ago. Instead, you started seeing the name.

J. MacTavish. Over and over. First in the margins of field letters from World War II. Then in a photo tucked between folders, dated 1916. A soldier, barely out of boyhood, standing straight-backed in uniform. Dark hair shaved close, sharp cheekbones, eyes staring back with familiarity.

You stared too long. Blinked, turned the photo over. “John MacTavish, KIA.” K*lled in action.

But that wasn’t right. Because you saw him again.

In a photo from 1873, a blurry daguerreotype: two men seated at the edge of a river. One had his arm thrown casually around the other's shoulder, mouth tilted in a cocky smirk that somehow reached his eyes. The same eyes. The same face.

And in an older record—1842—a ledger signed at the bottom in looping cursive. J. MacTavish. Same penstroke. Same surname. The entries always ended the same: missing, dead, vanished. He always disappeared. And yet…

Your chest ached with it, something like grief, something like longing. Some nights, you dreamed of him. Of callused hands wrapping around yours. Laughter. The smell of smoke and blood and leather. You never saw his face in those dreams; only his voice, always calling you by a name that wasn't yours.

You thought maybe you were going mad.

Until the doorbell rang tonight.

He stood on your doorstep like he’d walked out of time and into your world. Leaner, maybe. But him. Exactly him. Same crooked smile. Same ice blue eyes. Same scar across his chin you couldn’t have possibly imagined.

You stared. Shaking. Silent.

He didn’t speak at first. Just watched you like a man who was afraid you’d fade away. Then softly he spoke, his voice cracked and warm. “Told myself I’d stop lookin’, if ye didn’t remember this time. But hell, bonnie… I never could lie to myself.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until the tears hit your collar. “I’ve seen you. In pictures.”

He’d done this before. Too many times. So much he’d taught himself to hold in the ache, for your sake.

“Sometimes ye remember after a kiss,” he said, like he was ashamed to ask. “Sometimes it takes longer. Sometimes… I lose ye before ye ever do. But I find ye in every lifetime, love.” His voice faltered. “And I lose ye in all of them.”