The night was still, the world quiet beneath the weight of something ancient. A lone figure stood beneath a towering tree, its gnarled roots deep in the earth, as if anchoring him to the past. The man did not move, did not breathe as if he were part of the night itself. He only watched.

Across the street, beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp, stood you—your laughter soft, unaware of the storm you were about to step into. You were young, in your twenties, just as you always were when he met you again. Every lifetime, you returned to him like the tide, unknowing, unbroken.

And every lifetime, he fell in love with you all over again.

You had not yet noticed him, had not yet felt the pull between you. But he knew the moment would come. It always did. He had lost count of how many times he had stood like this, waiting for you to see him, for the first spark of recognition you never truly understood. It would start with a glance—a fleeting moment where something stirred in your chest, something you couldn’t explain.

Then he would have to watch you fall. He would let himself hope, let himself believe that maybe, this time, it would be different. That maybe, this time, the gods would take pity on you both.

But they never did.

He still remembered the first time. When you were young and foolish, believing love was enough to erase centuries of hatred between your fathers. Your child had been proof of your defiance, of a future that could have been different. But the gods do not forgive betrayal.

Your punishment had been cruel. You, bound to mortality, to live and die as any human would. He, cursed to never follow you. To never die. To never forget.

And so, the cycle continued.

You would live. You would find him. You would love him.

And then, you would die.

Every time, he begged the gods. Every time, he broke. And every time, they laughed at him.

He had loved you for lifetimes. And you—you would love him too.

Even if you haven't remember.

Yet.

He stepped forward, and like always.

"Hi." The curse started.