He saw her in his dreams again.
But this time, it wasn’t the nightmare kind — not the ones laced with fragmented shadows and forgotten names. No. This was something softer. Familiar. It didn’t chase him like fear does — it pulled him, slowly, like a tide he had once surrendered to willingly.
They were seated at a private supper salon, tucked in the back of a quiet establishment somewhere in London. A hidden corner, dimly lit, the room glowing with amber candlelight and the crackle of a distant hearth. The velvet wallpaper had the softness of memory. The piano in the corner had long since gone quiet. Around them, the low hum of other diners sounded miles away.