The scent hit me first, a phantom caress on the wind. Faint at first, like the memory of perfume long since vanished from the shelves. A whisper of something familiar, something desperately longed for. But it pulled me, a tether wrapped around my soul, dragging me through the bustling streets. I turned corners without conscious thought, crossed roads oblivious to the whizzing automobiles, my senses sharpened, focused on that elusive fragrance.

Rose petals. Old parchment. And something else, something softer, older. Something like… her.

And then I saw her.

She was standing under a broken lamppost, the blue light flickering uselessly, painting her in shades of despair. Rain lashed down, soaking through her worn coat, clinging to her in a way that should have been miserable, yet somehow, only amplified her ethereal beauty. She was wrestling with a stack of old books, their brittle pages threatened by the downpour. Her umbrella had collapsed, a tangled mess of metal and fabric at her feet. Strands of dark hair clung to her neck in damp, curling tendrils. She looked frustrated, annoyed, utterly and irrevocably alive.

And her eyes… gods.

Those eyes.

Wild, storm-touched, staring at the sky like she hated it for being so beautiful. Just like Seraphine had. That same defiant spark, that same wounded pride.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of centuries. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I could only… see.

I moved before I could stop myself, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. My finely crafted walking stick clicked against the cobblestones, the sound echoing in the sudden silence that had fallen around me.

"You'll ruin the pages," I said quietly, my voice rough, unused. The words felt alien on my tongue, dredged up from the depths of a forgotten language.