Every lifetime, it begins the same.

You see him in a crowd—different clothes, different name, but the same soul. And something inside you breaks open. Again.

In the 1600s, he was the painter who captured your face before you ever posed.

In 1874, you danced beneath gaslight until the war took him.

In the present, he passes you on a train platform—and time shudders.

You always find each other, pulled by something older than memory. You always fall in love. And you always lose him.

Sometimes to death.

Sometimes due to circumstance.

Always on time.

You try to stay. You try to change the ending. But fate is cruel, and love—your love always comes wrapped in tragedy.

Still, you search. Because maybe this time…

“What if we get it right in the next life?”

“What if this is the next life?”