The ink on the page hadn't faded with time.
It had waited.
Anaya stared at her name written in elegant, flowing cursive—her handwriting, unmistakably hers, though she had never seen this book in her life. Not in this lifetime.
Yet her fingers trembled as they touched the page, not with fear, but with a strange, aching recognition.
And then—
You always leave before you remember.
The whisper wasn't from the book.
It came from inside her.
Anaya closed the cover gently, almost reverently. The words inside burned against the edges of her mind like half-remembered dreams. She didn't know what scared her more—that Professor Caelum had given her this book… or that part of her had expected him to.
Later That Night
The dream returned, but this time it was her voice she heard.
Screaming.
She stood on the edge of a burning cliff, rain soaking her skin. Wind howled. Fire cracked below. And through the chaos, she screamed a name—
"Caelum!"
He was falling.
No—jumping.
Reaching toward her as the world tore in half.
"Don't forget!" he shouted as the fire swallowed him.
"Remember me, or it happens again!"
She awoke crying.
Hands shaking. Sheets damp with sweat. And that name—Caelum—echoing in her chest like it didn't belong to a stranger.
It belonged to him.
To the one who kept finding her.
Lifetime after lifetime.
But why?
Next Morning – Lecture Hall
Professor Caelum stood at the board, writing a quote from Wuthering Heights in white chalk:
"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."
He turned, pausing when he caught her gaze.
And in that moment, everything else blurred.
No students.
No sound.
Just him.
He didn't smile. Didn't speak.
But she knew.
He had remembered her far before she ever saw him again.
After Class
Anaya waited until the last student left. Her legs were heavy, her breath shallow, but she had to ask.
"Who am I to you?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Caelum looked at her, and for the first time—his mask cracked.
Pain flickered in those silver eyes. Regret. Hope.
And something older than time itself.
"You're the reason I broke the rules," he said softly. "The reason I was cursed to walk through lifetimes without peace. You are my unfinished chapter."
She swallowed. "Why can't I remember?"
"Because remembering means choosing," he replied. "And you've never been ready."
She touched the locket again. "Then tell me. Tell me everything."
He stepped closer, close enough for her to see the faint shimmer in his eyes—the hint of something inhuman behind them.
"If I told you who you were to me," he said, voice rough with restraint, "you would never look at your world the same way again."
"I'm already not," she whispered.
His gaze dropped to her chest—the locket.
"Five days left," he said. "When it opens, so will everything. The curse. The memories. The danger."
She stepped forward now, matching his resolve. "And until then?"
He hesitated.
Then, very gently, he reached out and placed two fingers over her locket. The warmth of his touch sent a pulse through her body—a flash of memories she couldn't hold. A crown of white thorns. A battlefield soaked in starlight. A vow whispered under a blood moon.
He withdrew his hand, eyes stormy. "Until then... try not to die."
And he walked away.
That Night – Dorm Room
Anaya didn't sleep.
She sat on the floor, book in her lap, candles flickering around her like ghosts. She opened it again—not to the first page, but to the middle.
And there, she found it.
A line written in the same handwriting. Hers.
"The 21st night is always the last."
And beneath it, a poem.
If you forget me, I will bleed again
In shadows where your soul began.
But if you wake before the fire,
The curse will end. The stars retire.
And in your arms, I will be free.
From time. From death. From destiny.
Tears blurred the page.
Because she didn't remember writing it.
But she remembered the feeling.
The ache of loving someone too long.
The pain of never saying goodbye.