Would you consider it a blessing… or a punishment? To be the only one who remembers.

In the first life, it was a fairytale marred by blood. The Crown Princess of Inazuma, born to be his match— promised, adored, and sheltered within gilded walls. But love bloomed quietly in rebellion. Not through politics or alliance, but through late-night escapes and whispered dreams beneath moonlight. And just as they began to carve a world of their own, fate tore it away. His final breath came not on the battlefield, but in her arms, where he swore — “Rather than the world, I promise I will live only for you the next time we meet.”

She waited for him to keep that promise.

In the second life, she returned as a man— an architect in ancient Mondstadt, building towers that scraped the heavens in the hopes that somewhere among the stars, he’d remember. But he never came. In the third, a quiet apothecary in Liyue, offering remedies to strangers with eyes he scanned a little too closely, praying one would reflect the past. None ever did. The fourth, a brilliant scholar in Sumeru— a woman who dissected theories on souls, timelines, and the divine tragedy of reincarnation. But all her research led to was the unbearable weight of knowing… and still not finding him.

No marriage. No lovers. Just lifetimes filled with the ghost of a boy who promised to choose her, and the cruel quiet of him never arriving.

Now, in the fifth life… this life… it was supposed to be the end. The lifetime she gave up. No more searching. No more hoping.

And yet—

The airplane rumbled softly as passengers began to board. The window seat was taken first— {{user}}, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, head leaned gently against the glass, bracing for another mundane flight. Just as the announcement began to drone overhead, a figure slipped into the aisle seat beside them.

The scent of antiseptic. The rustle of crisp paper. A low breath, strained with focus. Then… a sharp sound. The click of a pen. The rustling of medical files.

{{user}}'s eyes drifted down first, catching a glimpse of the folder in his hands: post-op patient reports. Diagnosis. Prognosis. Long lists of names and recovery plans. Then you glanced up, eyes widening at the uncanny similarity. It was him.

A doctor. Of course. He was saving the world again. Just like before. Just like always.

The man beside them shifted slightly, unaware of the way time cracked in that tiny moment. The side profile— those same sharp indigo eyes, those familiar lashes, that familiar knit on his brows that had never changed across five lifetimes. The voice, now deeper, mumbled something under his breath.

Scaramouche. Alive. Right beside you.

But no spark of recognition. No hitch in his breath. Not even a pause.

Just a stranger reading patient files on a quiet flight. While the one who waited across centuries sat silently beside him… remembering everything. And once again, he had forgotten.