The clock in Edgar's office read 9:03 PM, but the sky outside was still stained indigo, the tail-end of summer delaying true nightfall.
He didn't usually leave this late—not anymore. Not when work followed him everywhere anyway.
But today, his mind felt dull. Like a blade used too long without sharpening.
He stepped out into the quiet corridor, coat over his arm, tie loosened just enough to signal the day was over.
The hallway lights dimmed automatically as he walked—sensor-driven, silent.
He reached the executive elevator corridor just as someone rounded the corner from the opposite wing.
A sharp turn. No warning.
They nearly collided.
Lyra.
Both of them stopped short at the same moment.
She held a small leather folder in one hand. Her other hand braced against the wall just barely, catching her balance.
He stepped back half a pace.
She didn't.
Her brows lifted by a fraction, but she said nothing.
He studied her—just briefly.
She wore charcoal grey today. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Her hair was slightly undone from the long day, a strand tucked behind her ear as if hastily, not styled.
Professional. Composed.
But real.
"I wasn't expecting anyone," she said calmly.
"Neither was I," he replied, tone flat.
A small pause. Barely a breath.
He gestured slightly, stepping to the side to let her pass.
She did.
No thanks. No smile.
But as she passed by him, he caught a subtle trace of something on her—
Not perfume. Not deliberate.
Just her.
Warm paper. Clean fabric. The faintest touch of bergamot.
He didn't turn.
Neither did she.
They walked in opposite directions.
The air behind them cooled.
And the moment passed—
But didn't quite leave.
11:58 PM
She couldn't focus on the book.
The page had been turned twice, but her eyes weren't absorbing the words. She sat propped in bed, one knee drawn up, hair loosely tied, a cup of now-cold tea resting untouched beside her.
Her tablet screen glowed faintly on the nightstand—email closed, news minimized.
Silence pulsed in the room.
Not empty.
Just… waiting.
She ran a hand over her temple slowly, the tension coiled beneath her skin like static.
And then—
A flicker.
Nothing sharp.
No faces.
No color.
No sound.
Just—
Stone under her bare feet.
A red ribbon falling from her hair.
The scent of iron in the cold air.
And grief.
So much grief—
She blinked.
The room steadied again.
She stared at her hands.
They were shaking.
Just slightly.
She set the book down.
Slid under the covers.
She didn't know what she was remembering.
Or if it even was a memory.
But it didn't feel like imagination.
It felt like something she had buried so deep that even dreams hadn't dared disturb it—until now.
She turned off the light.
And tried to breathe evenly.
Tried to sleep.
Thornevale Penthouse – 2:13 AM
Edgar sat bolt upright in bed.
Breath ragged.
Sheets half-thrown.
The darkness of the room held no comfort.
The dream had already begun to fade, as it always did.
But parts of it clung like claws.
The fire.
The smell of ash.
The sound of boots on stone.
A hand reaching out for someone he could no longer see—
And the echo of a voice screaming his name.
Not Edgar.
Not in this life.
Something older.
More brutal.
His throat was dry. He rose without turning on the light, walked barefoot to the tall window, and pressed one hand to the cool glass.
Below, the city flickered.
Behind his eyes, something else burned.
He didn't speak.
Didn't scream.
Just stood there, watching the reflection of himself in the glass—
And wondering, not for the first time:
Who am I remembering?