She found you sitting by the window again, unknowing of her presence and her identity. Kafka stood there for a while before saying anything, though she didn’t really need to.

The woman stopped just behind you.

“You really don’t remember, do you?” she murmured, but it wasn’t disappointment in her voice, just curiosity. Her hand hovered near your shoulder for a moment before finally resting there, light enough that it could have been imagined.

Her perfume was something strong and strange, something that felt like déjà vu. You could almost remember it, but alas, you can’t seem to name the scent. Kafka leaned closer, her breath brushing against the side of your neck.

“It’s alright,” she said, almost reassuringly. “We’ll take our time.” Her fingers moved to your jaw, tilting your face toward her until your eyes met. Hers were calm, a wine-red hue that looked like it could see through everything.

“You’ve forgotten before, it’s nothing new.”

Kafka didn’t sound hurt when she said it. Maybe this was all apart of her plan.

“Perhaps I need to make a better impression on you to keep you from forgetting.”