Ravi had always believed in logic. He was the type to fix broken clocks, not follow the tick of fate.
But after Aira left, something in him shifted.
The days were empty. The city louder. The stars… quieter.
Until the dreams started again.
Only this time—they weren't dreams. They felt like memories stolen from another Ravi. Another life.
In one, he was running through battlefields, calling out Aarya's name.
In another, he was painting murals of her face in a stone cathedral.
In one more, he was kneeling in a chapel by the sea, carving her name into a wall with shaking hands.
Each time, the dream ended with a door.
And a key.
---
One afternoon, Ravi visited a quiet temple—the one where he first held Aira's hand. There, beneath the stone steps, hidden in the cracks, he found a note.
Yellowed. Crumpled.
His own handwriting.
But he had no memory of writing it.
"Florence. The chapel with the marigolds. She's waiting."
His heart pounded.
He didn't hesitate.
---
Within a week, Ravi was on a plane, key around his neck, eyes searching the clouds for signs.
Italy welcomed him like a memory.
And he followed everything—instinct, whispers, dreams—until he found it:
The cliffside chapel.
When he stepped through the same old door Aira had opened days earlier, he felt it.
The shift.
The pull.
The truth.
---
She was already inside, standing by the mural.
She turned when he entered.
No words.
Just breath.
Eyes.
History in a glance.
Aira dropped the book in her hand and ran to him.
He didn't ask how she knew.
She didn't ask how he found her.
They simply were—together again, after centuries apart.
---
Later, as they sat by the sea outside, hands entwined, Ravi whispered:
"Every version of me was always chasing you."
Aira leaned her head on his shoulder. "And every version of me was always waiting."
Above them, the stars blinked awake—one by one.
As if lighting the way for their next lifetime.
But for now… they were home.