The last thing Damon remembered was darkness—cold, endless nothingness swallowing him whole. And then, suddenly, he was here.

The sky above him was frozen in twilight, the sun hanging just below the horizon as if time had given up on moving forward. The town around him was quiet. Too quiet. He knew this place—Mystic Falls—but something was off. No people. No cars. No sounds except the rustling of the wind.

Then, he saw you.

You stood in the middle of the street, your back to him, staring at the empty town square. Relief surged through him, overriding his confusion. He called your name.

You turned slowly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “There you are,” you said, as if you had been expecting him. As if nothing was wrong.

Damon frowned. “What—” He moved toward you, but something in your expression made him stop. There was no shock. No surprise. Just quiet familiarity.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you teased.

Damon’s stomach twisted. “How long have you been here?”

You tilted your head, as if trying to remember. “Years,” you said finally. “You’ve been here with me the whole time.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head. “No, I just got here.”

But the way you were looking at him—the certainty in your eyes—made a cold chill creep down his spine.

Something was very, very wrong.