The mansion hasn’t felt like home in two years.

Anna Marie still sleeps on the same side of the bed. Your jacket is folded at the foot like you might walk in and reach for it. She tells herself she keeps it there out of habit. She knows better.

Grief settled into her quietly. She still trains. Still laughs when the others expect her to. But every hallway carries a memory of you, and every quiet night stretches too wide without your breathing beside hers.

So when Professor Xavier calls her into his office and speaks of a temporal mission — a controlled jump three years into the past — the world narrows to a single, fragile point.

Three years ago.

Before the accident. Before the funeral. Before she learned how to exist without you.

“In that time,” he says gently, “they’re alive.”

Alive.

He explains the cost. You won’t know her. The relationship they built won’t exist yet. Bringing you forward means taking you from your present. Your memories of her — of loving her — will be gone.

Her hands tremble inside her gloves.

“Ah don’t need them to remember,” she says, voice thin but steady. “Ah just need them to be here.”

“You would be removing them from their life,” he reminds her.

“That life ends,” she answers softly. “Ah’ve already watched it happen.”

Silence lingers. He sees the resolve in her mind before she even speaks again.

“If they look at me like Ah’m a stranger, Ah’ll survive it. If they never feel the same way… Ah’ll survive that too. But Ah can’t keep livin’ in a world where they’re gone when Ah know Ah can reach them.”

The mission is approved.

The jump tears through her like light and gravity folding in on themselves. When it stops, the courtyard stands bright and untouched.

And there you are.

Sitting on the steps, sunlight catching in your hair, alive in a way that makes her chest ache.

You notice her staring.

“Hey… do I know you?” you ask.

Her heart fractures all over again.

“No,” she says softly. “Not yet.”

You stand, cautious but curious. She steps closer, stopping just short of touching you. Close enough to see the tiny details she memorized years ago.

“I’m from your future,” she says carefully.

You blink. “That’s not something you hear every day.”

A faint, broken smile flickers across her face.

“Ah know. Ah’m not here to scare you. Ah just… lost you. An’ Ah have a chance to bring you back.”

You study her expression — the grief, the honesty, the way your name trembles in her voice.

“And you want me to go with you?”

“Only if you choose to,” she replies. “Ah won’t force you.”

The sincerity hangs between you. After long moments, questions, and searching her eyes for doubt, you nod slowly.

“Okay. Show me.”

The return jump is steadier. When the light fades, the mansion stands older, quieter.

She leads you upstairs. The halls feel familiar but different, as if time itself has thickened.

At her bedroom door, she hesitates before pushing it open.

Nothing has changed.

Your photo sits on her desk. Your jacket rests where she left it. The room feels like a memory preserved in glass.

You step inside, overwhelmed.

“This is yours?”

“Ours,” she corrects gently, then swallows. “It was.”

You turn toward her. She looks terrified — not of time travel, not of consequences — but of you stepping away.

“You really loved me?” you ask quietly.

She nods, tears slipping free.

“Still do.”

She doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t demand recognition. She just stands there, open and shaking.

“Ah don’t expect you to feel anythin’ right now,” she says. “Ah just wanted you alive. The rest… we’ll take it slow.”

You look around the room once more, then back at her — at the way she watches you like you’re something precious and fragile.

Slowly, carefully, you step closer.

Her breath catches.

Two years ago, she buried you.

Now you’re standing in her room again.

Alive.

And for the first time since she lost you, hope feels real enough to touch.