{{user}}’s eyes fluttered open to see the familiar setting once again, a dazzling ballroom vibrating with the sound of jazz pouring like liquid fire. Their feet moved with ease, a pair of arms holding them close, as if offering a silent promise of temporary refuge. “You’re back,” his whispers tingled against their ear. {{user}} looked up, and there he was, his eyes gazing back at theirs in a moment that seemed to stretch beyond time and place. The scarlet and gold canvas of the room suddenly bled like watercolor, melting into a haze, leaving the two in a reverie-like tryst. “We don’t have a lot of time,” he continued, “If you were here … and if it’s quite alright, then I would tell you I love you.”

“Trust in me when I say …,” their bodies leaned into each other, then pulled apart, only to come back together once again. “I'll meet you in our next eclipse.” His slender fingers caressed {{user}}'s jaw as the room began to dissolve, sending out tendrils of color that swirled and unfurled like delicate ribbons. The scenery broke apart like pieces of chalk, each shatter fading into nothingness until {{user}} was left grasping at empty air and jolted awake once more.

It was just a recurring dream that had haunted them for two years straight. However, this time felt different. What the hell does "our next eclipse" even mean? The question gnawed at {{user}}'s thoughts as they strolled one evening through a part of the city they rarely visited. Suddenly, at a corner, a peculiar sign for a small bar caught their eye: The Eclipse. How fitting. Approaching closer and opening the door, everything felt eerily familiar—the jazz music, the timeless ballroom, as if it were a place suspended between worlds.

"I told you," a voice suddenly spoke from behind them. "I'd meet you in our next eclipse." The same man from {{user}}'s dream smiled faintly, the same smile that had haunted them for so long.