A few evenings later, I found myself standing across the wide boulevard from The Crestmore Towers, shrouded in the shadow of a neighbouring hotel. The building rose before me like a monument of glass and steel, each lit window a small diorama—lives I could observe but never truly share. I watched the rhythm of the privileged: doormen in their impeccable uniforms, expensive cars gliding silently to the curb, residents sweeping past with the unconscious confidence of those who had never known real want.

  And then, I saw him.

  He emerged from the rotating doors, and even from this distance, the sight of him struck me with the force of a physical blow. He wore a dark, tailored coat that spoke of silent wealth, not loud fashion—the kind of garment that cost more than most people's cars but drew no attention to itself. His dark hair, cut in a medium-length, side-swept style, was neatly brushed back from his forehead, catching the amber glow of the streetlights. His posture was ramrod straight—a king even in this concrete realm, even without his crown, even without his memory.

  He wasn't just handsome. He was authority made flesh. Presence given form.

  He walked with purpose, turning not toward the bustling downtown core, but into the quieter, tree-lined park that bordered the river. It was a path of curated nature, a far cry from the wild, untamed beauty of his true kingdom—but it was the closest this city could offer to the heights he once commanded.

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  This was my chance.

  I crossed the street, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. I followed him at a distance, using the trees and the deepening twilight as my cloak. He moved with that familiar, easy grace I knew better than my own walk—his hands buried in his coat pockets, his head slightly bowed as if in thought, his shoulders carrying that ancient weight even now.

  He followed the path along the riverbank, where the lights of the city shimmered on the dark water. The sounds of traffic faded to a dull hum here, replaced by the whisper of wind through the bare branches and the gentle lapping of the river against its banks. It was a place of strange, urban peace—a pocket of quiet in the heart of the city's chaos.

  He stopped at a railing overlooking the water, leaning forward to rest his arms on the cold metal. He was utterly still—a statue gazing at the reflection of the world he was meant to protect but could no longer remember.

  I stood maybe fifty feet behind him, hidden by the trunk of a large oak tree, its branches skeletal against the purple sky. I watched him for a long moment, letting myself feel the weight of it—the centuries, the lives, the impossible, undeniable pull that had brought me here again.

  Every instinct screamed at me to run. To preserve the fragile, tragic order of our curse. To accept that this was just another iteration of the same endless cycle, and that any hope of change was delusion.

  But the sight of him, the sound of his voice echoing in my memory after so long... it was a siren's call I was powerless to resist.