Golden sunlight streamed through the streets of Pacific Heights, where stately Victorian houses stood with their ornate iron balconies and stained-glass windows sparkling in the morning light. A gentle breeze rustled through the eucalyptus trees, carrying the soft scent of lavender from the small gardens lining the sidewalks.
Emma stirred beneath a soft duvet in her modest apartment tucked on a quiet slope of Pacific Heights. Just over 40 square meters, the space held a bedroom, a kitchenette, and a cozy living room. Minimalist yet refined, it was adorned in cream and pale oak tones, exuding an air of calm elegance. She rented it for $2,800 a month, a reasonable price for a freelance artist in the city.
She opened her eyes and stared at the white plaster ceiling. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting shimmering patterns on the walls. She lay still, listening to birds chirping outside and the distant clang of a streetcar. Her body remained weary from the long tour, yet her mind was restless, drifting.
The past few months had drained her. Touring Eastern Europe with the independent troupe Enchanted, followed by a transatlantic cruise that lasted nearly three months, had left her physically and emotionally exhausted. Continuous performances, high-intensity rehearsals, and relentless travel had worn her down. Her once-supple skin had turned dry and sensitive, no longer revived by a few collagen gel masks.
Emma was a contemporary dancer of Asian-American heritage, often referred to as the “Eastern Moonlight” on independent European stages. She wore her loosely curled hair with effortless grace, her complexion porcelain-like, her fashion echoing quiet old money: elegant, refined, never showy. Offstage, she exuded a calm, approachable presence. But onstage, she transformed hypnotic, untouchable, impossible to look away from.
Three years ago, she’d been a content strategist at a major advertising firm in New York. She had it all: prestige, a high salary, a picture-perfect boyfriend, a premium yoga membership, and an Instagram full of curated snapshots of a “beautiful life.” But one morning, halfway through a client brief, she glanced up at the office mirror and was struck by a hollow ache within. A soft echo of something missing stirred in her chest, the beginning of sleepless nights and a growing desire to rediscover herself.
Months later, she resigned. She signed up for a dance class. She cut her hair short, sold her car, ended her relationship, and chose a path without a map.
Now, back in her San Francisco apartment, she tidied up, fried an egg, poured a glass of almond milk, and took a long, cool sip. It had been ages since she felt this alive. Perhaps it had been just as long since she’d had such a deep, undisturbed sleep. And yet, that sleep had been far from peaceful - haunted again by the same dream. Always the same dream.
A man in medieval armor, kneeling in the rain. He held her tightly, sobbing, begging for forgiveness. His pain was real, his regret palpable - but his face remained a blur, impossible to recognize. The rain and his tears became one, leaving only a chilling sense of solitude behind.
The dream always ended with the same image: a silver ring with an aquamarine stone, falling onto cold stone, echoing into silence.
Emma often woke in the middle of the night, heart pounding, soaked in sweat, tears streaming down her face. Her spine carried the phantom chill of a memory without a name. She had dreamed it dozens of times, yet she could never see the man’s face. The dream began the day she froze in that New York office, haunted by a distant echo of purpose.
Unable to find answers in her current life, she chose to leap.
That was also when she found out her boyfriend of three years had been cheating. When they broke up, he called her crazy, said he’d never truly felt like she was his. “You’re too independent,” he said. “Too strong. I can’t control you.” She slapped him—twice—and walked away without regret.
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Their relationship had started not from love but from loneliness. Everyone else was falling in love, and she didn’t want to be left behind. That’s how she ended up dating James, a clean-cut man her age with a stable job and seemingly good intentions. But she was wrong. One night, she walked into a bar and saw him wrapped around a girl with a pixie cut, their bodies tangled like sea creatures. The memory still made her stomach twist.
Through it all, she’d been kind, loyal, and present. But he was right about one thing: she never loved him. Her heart had always been elsewhere—longing for something unnameable, some lost love that never fully existed. It was that ache that propelled her into the unknown.
She had danced in a crumbling monastery in Spain. Performed in the ruins of a Japanese temple. Meditated on the misty peak of Tr?n V? hill in northern Vietnam. Still, the yearning remained.
“I feel like a soul reborn—not to live, but to retrieve something left unfinished.”
Now she was here - San Francisco. The Enchanted troupe had decided to stay a month longer than planned, just enough time to rest before their next tour.
After a few minutes of quiet thought, Emma decided to spend the afternoon wandering in the sun, searching for a rare book on ancient Eastern symbolism to bring along for her upcoming trip to Bhutan.
She slipped on a pale linen dress and a soft cardigan, tied her hair loosely, and tucked a canvas tote under her arm. Then she stepped out into the crisp air and golden light of the city.
On Fillmore Street, where old bookstores nestled between quaint cafés, Emma knelt beside a sidewalk bookstall, running her fingers gently over covers faded with time. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees, casting shimmering patterns on the cobblestones. The city seemed to quiet around her - only the sound of turning pages and the wind remained.
Then, a sudden scream tore through the stillness. A dark blur rushed past, snatching her tote from her hands.
She barely had time to gasp before a tall figure bolted after the thief.
Footsteps pounded the pavement. A swift, clean tackle. A low command. Within seconds, the man had pinned the thief, said something under his breath, then shoved him toward a crowd gathering nearby. The thief twisted free and fled. No one gave chase. But her bag—just moments ago ripped from her grip—was already back in her hands.
So fast. Too fast.
The man turned toward her.
Sunlight filtered through the branches above, casting a soft glow over his white shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned wrists and a dark leather watch. He had an athletic frame, solid and composed. There was something about his presence: calm, commanding, quietly unreachable.
“Are you alright?” His voice was low and rough, like oak aged in tea and honey.
Emma looked up, and the world fell silent.
Amber eyes met hers. Clear. Deep. Lit by something inexplicable. His brown hair was tousled from the chase, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sand-colored trousers fitting him with quiet precision - somehow relaxed yet intentional.
And in that moment, something stirred inside her.
There you are.
Not a spark of romance - something older.
A quiet tremble.
As if her soul recognized his.
“I… thank you,” she said, her voice unsteady, her gaze unmoving.
“I’m Harrison.”
He returned her bag, eyes lingering - as if trying to remember something just out of reach.
“You look familiar. Have we met before?”
The question hung in the air, soft and uncertain, as if even he wasn’t sure why he’d asked it.
“Emma.” She smiled, gently.
“My memory’s not great… but if I had met you before, I wouldn’t have forgotten.”
A hush settled between them.
No more words. Only wind.
Sunlight slipped through the bookstore windows, casting trembling leaf-shaped shadows on the floor.
Then—
A flash.
A memory.
A silver ring, aquamarine, falling onto stone.
A sound only her heart could hear.
In that instant, the world faded.
She stepped beyond time...
Into a place where nothing had begun,
But her heart…
still beat with the rhythm of long ago.
