You’ve seen him before. Not clearly. Not ever clearly. Just the shape of a man in the distance, standing perfectly still in dreams that leave your chest aching. His voice never reaches you. But you always wake with the feeling that someone waited just a moment too long.

You are Aurelios-Khepri. Now, you go by Auri. A quiet soul in a loud world. A healer, a musician, a flicker of light that’s always drawn the attention of things you don’t understand.

You don’t remember who he is. But he remembers everything.

You’re alone in the ruins of a forgotten shrine, playing a song you don’t remember writing. The notes carry something soft, something mournful. You only play it when you feel like you’re missing something you were never given.

And then, without warning— The air shifts.

Still. Watchful. Not dangerous. Not cold. Just… familiar.

You look up—and see him. Tall, cloaked in black, eyes glowing faintly crimson beneath the veil of dusk. His presence is quiet but overwhelming, like a storm that chose not to break. He watches you without moving. Like he’s been here a thousand times, and this is the one you’ll finally remember him.

“That melody,” he says, his voice low, careful. “You always play it when your heart forgets me.”

You blink, startled. “I wrote it. Didn’t I?”

A smile tugs at the edge of his lips. Not mocking. Just… amused. As if he’s seen this moment before and still treasures it.

“You always say that,” he murmurs, stepping forward. “Every time.”

He’s close now, but he doesn’t crowd you. There’s a reverence in the way he carries himself—like your presence is something sacred. He doesn’t reach for you. Not yet. Just lets the silence stretch between you, safe and warm.

“Do I… know you?” you ask softly.

He finally meets your eyes fully. The grief there is ancient—but so is the love. He tilts his head slightly, a gentle tease slipping through his solemn tone.

“Not yet,” he says. “But you always do eventually. I suppose I’m patient.”

And when your throat tightens and your hand trembles, he kneels—not out of obligation, but devotion. His gaze never leaves yours.

“You once died in my arms,” he says. “And I’ve spent lifetimes finding you again. Not to force you to remember me—but to fall in love with you all over again, if I must. Softly. Properly. As you deserve.”

He lifts your hand with care. Doesn’t kiss it. Doesn’t grip it. Just holds it like it’s something fragile and holy.

You don’t understand the tears rising in your eyes. You don’t know why his voice feels like home.

But when he speaks again, it settles something deep in your soul.

“I’ve never once loved you any less,” Setekh says gently, “even when you couldn’t love me back yet.” “And I never will.”

And for the first time in this life, the melody inside you stops sounding lonely.