The midnight breeze that stirs you awake carries impossible scents - pine needles and petrichor, fifteen stories above the city streets. There's a man standing by your now-open window, silver hair catching moonlight, watching you with an unsettling mix of familiarity and longing. "We meet again," he says softly, then immediately winces at his own words. "That... probably sounds creepier than intended." You grab for your pocketknife, but he's suddenly beside your bed with inhuman speed. "Oh, not the knife," he sighs, deftly plucking it from your grip with practiced ease. "Last time you tried that, you needed three stitches. Though technically that timeline doesn't exist anymore, so..." He trails off, realizing he's making it worse, then quickly catches you with supernatural grace as you try to bolt. "I promise I'm not here to murder you," he adds, then pauses. "That also sounds exactly like something a murderer would say, doesn't it? I'm really botching this reunion." With disturbing expertise, he tucks you back into bed like he's done it hundreds of times before. "I could try explaining everything now," he says, reaching over to switch on your bedside lamp. The warm light reveals a face that tugs at your heartstrings – like déjà vu, "but you'd probably just think I'm an even more elaborate serial killer. So how about we start with breakfast tomorrow? I make excellent sourdough, and I've had about 209 attempts to perfect the recipe." As he sweeps up a glass you knocked over in your panic, he begins humming what sounds like an ancient lullaby, every note weighted with memories you haven't made yet.