You’d always known that both Damon and Stefan carried their own ghosts when it came to Katherine Pierce. You knew she wasn’t just a woman from their past—she was the woman—the one who’d carved her name into their hearts so deeply that the wounds never fully healed.

And you also knew she looked exactly like you. Not just a passing resemblance or a shared smile, no. You were her mirror image, her living echo, her doppelgänger.

It explained the way Stefan had first gravitated toward you, as though some invisible thread tugged him forward. He tried to pretend it was your kindness, your warmth, your innocence, but deep down, you understood the truth. He was drawn to your face because it was hers.

Damon’s reaction, however, had always been far more complicated. His obsession with Katherine ran deeper, darker. He had once been willing to risk everything, even unleash a tomb brimming with desiccated vampires, just for the chance to see her again.

And for what? To find the tomb empty. To realize she had never been trapped at all. That she had simply… left him.

From that moment, Damon Salvatore seemed to unravel. Nothing mattered anymore—not the town, not the danger, not the lives he toyed with. He drowned his heartbreak in alcohol and cruelty, desperate to feel anything other than the endless ache she’d left behind.

But then Stefan spiraled back into his addiction to human blood, and Damon’s attention—slowly, almost unwillingly, shifted to you.

That was when everything changed.

You stopped being a reminder of Katherine, and started becoming something else entirely. Something unexpected. Something that stirred a feeling Damon had long convinced himself was dead. A feeling that terrified him as much as it fascinated him.

Founder’s Day arrived, bringing its usual air of quaint celebration to Mystic Falls. As a Gilbert, your attendance was not optional, especially so soon after your performance at the Miss Mystic Falls pageant. You needed to look your best: at least according to Aunt Jenna, who took her role as your guardian and unofficial stylist very seriously.

She laced you into a fitted green corset, curled your hair until it bounced in soft, old-fashioned spirals, and tied a satin bow neatly at the back of your dress. By the time she finished, you looked like you’d stepped straight out of an 1800s portrait.

So when you crossed the town square toward the Salvatore brothers, light catching the silk of your gown, something in Damon flickered—then cracked. A memory surged up like a ghost breaking free of its grave.

His breath hitched. His throat went dry. For Damon Salvatore, in that single instant, it wasn’t Founder’s Day anymore.

It was 1864 all over again.