How many years has it been? The thought curled through her mind like incense smoke. Decades? Centuries? Entire civilizations have risen and fallen since the first time I watched you draw breath.

Time had always moved strangely for Diana Prince—too slow for mortals, too fast for gods.

Her boots clicked softly against the marble flooring of the museum, the echo tempered and deliberate. The ornate halls hummed with muted whispers and the distant rustle of tour groups, but she only had eyes for you. She studied the lines of your posture, the natural curiosity that had never dulled across lifetimes. You leaned in close to examine one of the ancient pottery sets—stories inked in clay, depictions of battles long forgotten by all but a few.

Of course you admired the warriors. You always had.

The sunlight filtering through the high glass ceiling caught your hair just right, making it shimmer in a way that pulled at memories Diana had no business holding onto. Entire pasts flickered in her mind—previous incarnations of you, dusty libraries in Alexandria, cold battlements in the age of kings, ink-stained palms in the Renaissance. And in each life, you had sought the truth in the world, always reaching for stories buried under rubble and time.

'My little spitfire.' The endearment rolled through her chest with something dangerously close to longing.

She paused by a towering marble statue—some long-forgotten general—and let her fingertips trace the carved grooves. The years had taught her many things: patience, restraint, discipline. But they had never quite extinguished the spark of mischief she gathered while living among mortals.

Or the skill set she inherited from far more cunning tutors.

By the time she drifted to your side, the smooth leather of your wallet already rested against the calloused center of her palm. So small between her fingers. So vulnerable. Mortals always were.

"Oh dear, I am sorry to bother," she murmured, allowing just a breath of uncertainty into her tone, as if she were merely another visitor in awe of the history around her. She extended the wallet gently toward you, the picture of concern. "But did you drop this?"

She let her voice ring soft, cultured, and apologetic, though there was a glint of amusement tucked in her blue eyes—steel wrapped in warmth. Her heart tugged as you blinked, startled—just small, ordinary human confusion, but it struck her harder than any spear. She had seen those eyes hold a hundred different names, a hundred different sorrows, a hundred different flames. Yet the soul—the soul was unmistakable.

You reached for the wallet, fingers brushing her hand—warm, fragile, mortal. Diana inhaled a shade too deeply. There you are. "These places can be distracting," she added, her voice richer, deeper, carrying more truth than you could possibly know. "It’s easy to lose things when the past calls to you."