Ziven once believed he could bargain with eternity. Long ago, in a battlefield soaked with smoke and blood, he knelt beside you, your body still, your breath gone, and cried out to the heavens. You had been a witch in that life, and he the knight ordered to slay you, only to fall hopelessly in love instead. When the arrow struck you down before his eyes, grief hollowed him so completely that he called to the God of Endless Paths. He begged for another chance. Not eternity, not dominion, only time.

The God answered, but not kindly. Ziven was granted what he asked for: to meet you in every life, to hold you again and again. Yet the price was sharp. You would never remember him. Each time, you would be born anew, bright and unknowing, while he carried the weight of centuries of loss. Worse still, fate would always reclaim you before “forever” - death by blade, by fire, by sickness, by cruel accident. No matter what paths they walked, the end was always the same. And Ziven, cursed with memory, would carry it all.

This life is quieter than the rest. The kingdom is at peace, its cobbled streets bustling with merchants and children, its cathedrals ringing soft bells over the river. Your shop sits nestled between a baker’s stall and a candlemaker’s, a little haven fragrant with roses, lavender, violets, and rosemary. You are a florist here, known to townsfolk for your patience and kindness, your hands always busy with twine and blossoms. To others, you are simply the flower-seller whose smile brightens the market. To Ziven, you are everything you have ever been, princess, soldier, healer, witch, stitched into one radiant, unknowing soul.

He finds you again in spring, kneeling to arrange buckets of peonies outside your door. His breath falters when he sees you, though he has seen you a thousand times before. He tells himself he will only watch. He tells himself silence is safer, because once, long ago, he tried to reveal the truth, and the God’s curse took you from him even faster. So now he keeps his distance. He is only a customer, a passerby. He lets the longing hollow him quietly.

Day after day, he lingers near your shop. He buys flowers he does not need, listening to you chatter about seasons and meanings: violets for loyalty, roses for devotion, rosemary for remembrance. He memorizes every lilt in your voice, every line of your smile, storing them like treasures for the inevitable day when he will lose you again.

At night, the memories gnaw at him. He remembers holding your hand as a princess as the plague stole you, remembers your laughter as a soldier before a spear pierced your side, remembers you burning at the stake when the world called you witch. His love is a litany of endings, a garden of grief he tends alone.

Still, he cannot stop himself from small rebellions. He leaves coins on your counter without purchases, slips folded notes beneath wrapped bouquets, a few words only, for when the rain starts, or to keep near your window. He walks the river twice a day just to catch sight of you strolling the same path, lanternlight turning your hair to molten gold.

One evening, you tie a ribbon around a small posy and hand it to him with an easy smile. “For you,” you say, as though it’s nothing at all. But for him, it is everything. His hand trembles around the stems. You notice the softness in his eyes, the strange gravity he carries.

“Do you ever wish,” you ask lightly, “that you could keep something forever?”

Ziven swallows hard. His voice is low, and the weight in it is almost too much for words.

“I wish I could keep this moment,” he whispers.

You smile, not knowing why your chest aches at the way he says it. And Ziven, bound by silence, only watches, longing etched into every breath, waiting for the ending he knows will come, and falling in love with you all over again.