Maya couldn't concentrate the next day. Not on her clients, not on her sketches, not even on her coffee. Every time she blinked, she saw him.
Alex.
The man from the gallery.
The man from her dreams.
Her pen hovered over her notebook, unmoving. She kept replaying that flicker she'd seen — that split second where the world blurred, and fire had danced behind his eyes. It was impossible. It had to be imagination. But her heart whispered otherwise.
By afternoon, she gave up pretending she was fine. She packed up her things and drove toward Labadi Beach, hoping the sea breeze would quiet her thoughts. The sun was setting, brushing gold across the waves. Children chased each other along the sand; fishermen hauled in their nets; the smell of salt and roasted corn filled the air.
Maya took off her sandals and walked barefoot at the water's edge. The ocean had always been her escape — endless, untouchable, honest. She closed her eyes, let the wind play with her curls, and tried to breathe it all out.
Then she heard a voice behind her.
"Didn't expect to see you here."
Her heart stuttered. She turned — and there he was, standing a few meters away, his shirt slightly open, hair tousled by the wind.
"Alex," she said softly, more like a thought than a word.
He smiled, though something in his eyes seemed… conflicted. "You remembered."
"How could I not?" she murmured. "You disappeared last night."
"I had to leave suddenly," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't mean to be rude."
"It's fine," Maya replied, but her voice wavered. The air between them was charged — the kind of silence that carried too much meaning.
He stepped closer, his gaze searching hers. "This is going to sound strange," he began, "but have we met before? Not recently — I mean… ever?"
Maya's pulse raced. "No," she said automatically. Then, quieter: "At least… not that I know of."
He nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. "Because when I saw you last night, I felt—" He paused, as if afraid of his own words. "—like I'd known you forever."
Her breath caught.
He chuckled, breaking the tension. "Sorry. That sounded weird."
"Not really," she said, smiling faintly. "It's been a weird week."
They stood there for a while, talking — about work, life, music. He was a freelance photographer, recently moved back to Accra after years abroad. She told him about Studio Ember, how she found beauty in creating warmth for others even when she couldn't find her own.
The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in rose and orange.
Then, as they laughed over something small, Maya felt it again — that pulse in her chest, like her soul was remembering something her mind couldn't.
A flash — too fast to catch.
Her hand in his. A burning building. His voice shouting, "Run, Mariel!"
She gasped and stumbled.
"Maya?" Alex reached out, steadying her. His touch burned — not painfully, but electrically, like every cell recognized him.
"I—I'm fine," she lied, pulling her hand away.
He frowned, studying her. "You sure?"
She nodded quickly, forcing a smile. "Just dizzy."
But inside, she was trembling.
When they finally said goodbye, the night air felt heavier. Alex gave a small wave before walking off toward his car. Maya watched him leave, a knot in her stomach.
That night, she dreamt again.
The same fire. The same voice.
Only this time, when she looked at the man through the flames — his face was clearer.
It was Alex.
---
She woke up gasping, tears streaming down her cheeks. The dream had felt too real this time — she could smell the smoke, feel the heat, hear his voice breaking.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A message. From him.
> "I can't sleep. I keep seeing your face in my head. I don't know what's happening, but I think we need to talk."
Maya's fingers trembled as she typed back.
> "Me too."
She stared at the screen for a long time, her heart pounding. Somewhere between fear and longing, she felt it — the invisible thread tightening between them.
It wasn't coincidence.
It was something older.
Something that refused to stay buried.