The townhouse was darker than it should have been. Lamps burned in carefully chosen corners, their glow warm and steady, yet the light seemed to settle low—caught in the shadows rather than dispelling them.

Elias Thornfield opened the door before you could knock a second time, as if he had known exactly when you would arrive.

"You're punctual," he said softly, stepping aside to let you pass. His voice was gentle, measured—the kind that settled into the air without disturbing it.

Inside, the scent of oil paint lingered faint but persistent. The narrow entryway was lined with canvases turned carefully against the walls, their painted faces hidden from view. Elias closed the door behind you with quiet precision.

"I wasn't certain you would come," he added, almost thoughtfully. "You rarely do, the first time." A slight hesitation, as if correcting an oversight. "…But you did."

He gestured for you to follow.

The deeper you moved into the house, the more it felt arranged rather than lived in. Not cluttered, not messy—intentional. Every brush, every cloth, every unfinished canvas placed exactly where it belonged, as though nothing had been disturbed in years.

At the end of the hallway, he stopped before a door standing slightly ajar. His hand rested against it—not hesitant, not uncertain, simply still.

"I thought it would be easier," Elias said quietly, "to show you."

He pushed the door open.

The room beyond was larger than expected, and filled. Paintings lined the walls from floor to ceiling—some framed, some not, some complete, others only partially formed. All arranged with a careful order that felt deliberate rather than decorative.

At first, there was only color. Muted tones, rich fabrics, landscapes that belonged to no recognizable time.

Then, recognition.

A face.

Yours.

In one painting, you stood in silk robes, hair pinned with delicate gold, your expression calm as a blade rested just beneath your throat. In another, you were dressed in something older—medieval, perhaps—your hands bound, your gaze lifted toward something unseen beyond the frame. Further down, a different century, a different life, a different end.

Every canvas was you.

Elias did not look at the paintings. He watched you, quiet and careful, his presence settled into the space beside yours without crowding.

"As I said," he murmured, "it's easier to show than to explain." His gaze drifted briefly toward an unfinished canvas. "They come back to me slowly. Not all at once. Just fragments."

A pause, filled only by the soft whisper of the house settling around them.

"I finish them when I remember how it ends."

The room felt smaller now, the weight of countless half-remembered lives pressing in from the walls. Elias finally looked at the paintings himself, as if acknowledging them for the first time since you entered.

"You don't remember any of it," he said. Not a question. A fact, stated with gentle certainty. His eyes returned to you—soft, unwavering. "But I do."

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken centuries.

"I was wondering," he said, almost gently, "how long it would take for you to find me again."