That's Dead "Sweetheart," Sinclair's lips curved slightly as he sat up from the bed, his gaze fixed on Camilla with an almost ravenous intensity.
"You recognized me, didn't you?"
His voice was hoarse and low, as though suppressing a storm of emotions.
Camilla bit down hard on her lower lip, hesitating for a long moment before finally nodding.
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry."
She knew—this was Sinclair from her past life.
The sweetheart who had held her as they died together.
"Never apologize to me," Sinclair murmured, lifting a hand to gently trace the contours of her face with his fingers, as if memorizing every inch of her.
"I envy him so much."
The "him" he referred to was, of course, his present-day self.
Ever since his last moment of clarity, his consciousness had lingered like a shadow—watching everything unfold, yet powerless to reclaim control of his body.
This time, it was merely a fleeting chance.
