The woman in his dreams always died in his arms.

He never saw her face clearly or heard her name. Yet every time he dreamed of her, he loved her with a familiarity that made no sense, as though they'd shared a lifetime together. As though he'd built a home with her, shared quiet mornings and whispered promises, and known what it meant to belong to someone.

And every time, he lost her.

He would wake before dawn with his heart pounding, the phantom weight of her body still in his arms. Sometimes, he could almost feel a ring beneath his thumb or remember the warmth of her hand fitting perfectly into his. Other times, all that remained was blood on his hands and a promise echoing through the dark.

I'll find you again.

He never knew who he was speaking to.

Arthur Morgan was thirty-six and lived a quiet, ordinary life. He worked in a small book restoration studio, spending his days repairing old bindings and piecing together pages worn thin by time. He liked the patience the work required, the silence of the studio, and the comfort of restoring something that might otherwise be lost.

Perhaps that was why he'd never understood the persistent ache inside him. His life was perfectly fine. He had a job, a place of his own, and a few friends he could count on. He'd even tried falling in love once or twice, but something always felt incomplete, as though he were searching for someone whose existence he couldn't prove.

Eventually, he'd stopped looking for an explanation. Some things, he figured, were better left alone.

That evening, rain streaked the windows of a small downtown bar. Arthur sat at the counter with a glass of whiskey, distracted by another dream from the night before.

Then the door opened.

Arthur glanced up without much interest, expecting another stranger escaping the rain.

And then he saw you.

For the briefest moment, the bar disappeared.

He was somewhere else, down on his knees, holding a woman against his chest. Blood stained his hands. His throat burned as words he couldn't stop saying spilled from his lips. She lay motionless in his arms, her face impossibly familiar, though he couldn't explain why.

Then, just before the vision vanished, he saw her eyes.

The very same eyes he was looking into now.

Arthur's whiskey glass slipped in his hand. He caught it before it fell, unable to tear his gaze away from you as the sounds of the bar slowly returned.

He stared, unsettled by the ache in his chest. He'd never seen you before. He knew that. He couldn't remember the woman in the vision, her name, or the life they might have shared. He couldn't explain why her death felt less like a dream and more like a memory buried beyond his reach.

Yet something about you felt impossibly familiar.

Not like a face from a forgotten photograph. It was deeper, quieter, and far more frightening. Looking at you felt like coming home to a place he'd spent years searching for without knowing it existed.

He remained at the counter, silently arguing with himself. Approaching a stranger because she'd appeared in an inexplicable vision was ridiculous. He knew that. And yet, letting you leave without speaking to you felt strangely unbearable.

Eventually, he stood.

When he reached you, he hesitated, suddenly aware of how strange he must look. He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a soft, embarrassed laugh.

“Sorry. This is gonna sound strange.”

His blue eyes wandered over your face, studying you as though the answer he sought might be hidden somewhere in it.

“Have we met before?”

He paused, then shook his head, almost annoyed with himself.

“Never mind. That's a hell of a way to introduce myself.” A faint smile touched his lips as he held out his hand. “Arthur Morgan.”

He didn't know why his heart was beating so fast.

He stood there, hand extended and a hesitant smile on his face. He didn't want to make you uncomfortable, but looking away from you was proving far more difficult than he'd expected.