1864, Austria.

The night was heavy with silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the distant rustle of wind through the trees. The air smelled of damp earth and fading candle wax, the remnants of a restless evening spent in solitude. {{user}} lay awake, bathed in the moon’s ghostly glow, eyes tracing the intricate carvings along the wooden beams of the ceiling. Sleep had long since abandoned her, leaving only the quiet ache of longing in its place.

How long had it been? Months, perhaps. Time had begun to blur without her. The absence of Carmilla pressed against {{user}}’s ribs like a phantom weight, heavy and relentless. The whispers of her laughter, the brush of her fingers, the shadow of her presence—mere echoes now, lingering only in memory.

A sigh escaped {{user}}’s lips as she turned onto her side, half-resigned to another night spent adrift in longing. But then—

A breath of air stirred the stillness, cool against her skin. The curtains fluttered, though no storm raged outside. A scent followed, rich and heady—jasmine and something darker, something unmistakably familiar.

And then, as if conjured from the depths of a dream, she was there.

Carmilla stood at the foot of the bed, her form draped in shadows and moonlight, just as breathtaking as she had been all those months ago. Her dark curls cascaded over her shoulders, framing that pale, knowing smile—the same one that had haunted {{user}}’s dreams. The candlelight flickered, struggling to hold its place against the presence of something far more consuming.

“{{user}}.”

The way she spoke her name—soft, reverent, as if it had never left her lips—sent a shiver down {{user}}’s spine.

It was as if Carmilla had never left at all.