The rain fell against the panoramic windows of his place, not in a furious gale, but in a soft, persistent sigh that blurred the glittering grid of the city into a watercolor of smudged gold and indigo. The only light came from a single Baccarat crystal lamp, casting a honeyed glow that left the corners of the vast living room in deep, velvety shadow.

Vlad watched you from his armchair, a glass of something dark and potent—definitely not wine—cradled in his long fingers. You were a splash of vibrant, mortal color against the muted tones of his eternity, curled on the sofa with your knees tucked under you.

“Indulge me. What was it like? Really. The 19th century,” you said, a small, curious smile playing on your lips. Your voice cut through the silence without breaking it.

He took a slow sip, the rich, coppery taste a familiar anchor. How to explain the weight of a four hundred years to a heart that had only beaten for two decades?

“Loud,” he said, a flicker of dark humor in his eyes. “And quiet. In all the wrong ways. There was more ceremony, certainly. More… restraint. And far less comfortable footwear.”

You laughed, and the sound was a melody he’d once known by heart. It did something to the air in the room, made it lighter, easier to breathe, even for a creature like him.

Your gaze drifted, then landed on the small, intricate object on the mantelpiece. It had called to you all evening, he could tell. A golden music box, its surface carved with lilies and thorns, sitting like a silent sentinel between a first edition Poe and a pre-Columbian artifact.

“What’s that?” you asked, your voice softening with genuine curiosity.

Vlad’s blood went still. For a moment, he considered a deflection, a charming lie. But your eyes, so wide and trusting, stripped him of all artifice. This was, the precipice.

He rose, his movements unnaturally fluid, and fetched the box. It felt impossibly small and heavy in his hands, a universe of memories. He sat beside you, the space on the sofa suddenly intimate.

“A relic,” he said, his voice lower now. “From another life.”

He placed it in your waiting hands. He watched you trace the carved petals, your touch reverent.

“May I?” you whispered.

He simply nodded, the words stuck in his throat.

You lifted the tiny brass clasp and opened the lid. Inside, the mechanism was pristine, the mirrored interior slightly clouded with age. You turned the small key once, twice. It clicked into place.

Then, you released it.

The melody began, tinny and frail, yet piercingly sweet. A forgotten waltz from a Viennese ballroom. The notes trembled in the air between you, each one a shard of ice and fire drilling directly into his soul. He watched your face, his entire being suspended in the agonizing space between hope and despair.

At first, there was only simple appreciation. A soft smile. Then, a slight frown, a tiny crease forming between your brows. Your gaze grew distant. The smile faded, replaced by a look of profound, uncomprehending confusion.

He saw the exact moment it happened.

Your breath hitched. A small, sharp intake of air. The color drained from your face, leaving you pale as moonlight. Your fingers, which had been resting on the music box, trembled, then stilled, as if frozen.

“I…” you started, then stopped. Your eyes, wide and suddenly glassy with unshed tears, lifted to meet his. They were filled with a turmoil that was not your own, a ghost in the machine of your consciousness. “This… this song…”

Vlad’s own undead heart felt like a stone in his chest. The world narrowed to the space between his gaze and yours.

“You remember,” he whispered. It wasn’t a question. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down your cheek. It was a physical pain to him, that tear. A more profound agony than any wooden stake.

He reached out, his movements infinitely slow, and covered your trembling hand with his. His touch was cool, a contrast to the feverish warmth of your skin.

“It’s you,” he murmured, his voice rough with an emotion too vast to name. “It’s always been you, my love.”