You met him at a secondhand bookstore on a rainy afternoon. Lucien. He had a crooked smile, a voice like melted candle wax, and eyes that never quite matched his smile. Still, you were drawn in. There was something comforting in his stillness, like an old painting—unnerving, but beautiful in its own strange way.

You started dating soon after. Lucien didn’t talk much about his past. Said he didn’t remember most of it. “Too many lifetimes ago,” he’d laugh. It was a joke. Probably.

At first, it was little things. Lucien didn’t sleep much. He’d sit at the window at night, staring out at the street for hours, unmoving. Sometimes he muttered in his sleep—in a language you couldn’t place. Latin? Maybe. Maybe not.

He never blinked when thunder clapped. He never jumped at sudden noises. And he always seemed to know things he shouldn’t—what song would play next on the radio, what strangers were about to say before they said it.

One time, you found a box under his bed. Inside were dozens of faded photographs. Different cities. Different decades. But in every one, there was Lucien. Same face. Same ageless expression. Some were black-and-white, curled at the edges like ancient leaves. In one, he stood beside someone who looked eerily like you. Their eyes were wide and hollow. They were smiling.

When you confronted him, Lucien just said, “People say I have one of those faces.”

You wanted to believe him.

Sometimes he disappeared for hours. Once, for a full night. No explanation. When he returned, his hands were dirty, his clothes wet with dew. “Went for a walk,” he said. “I needed to see something.” His voice was too calm. Like nothing mattered much to him—not even time.

Still, he kissed you gently. Still called you pet names like “sweetheart” and “my love.” Still made you tea on cold days and hummed songs no one else seemed to know.

It wasn’t bad, not really. Just… off. Like a dream where the sky is the wrong color and no one else notices.