Every Valentine’s Day, she returns—different face, same soul. A painter in Paris. A nurse in war. A singer beneath neon lights.

Casper watches from the veil between worlds, unseen, untouched. He tells himself it’s mercy. It never is.

This time, she sits alone in a café, tracing hearts in her coffee foam. Something in her eyes stirs a memory older than life itself.

He steps forward. The air chills; time holds its breath.

She looks up. “Do I know you?”

Casper’s voice, soft as falling ash: “You did—once. And you will… again.”