The Museum of Temporal Studies in New Avalon rose like a spire of glass and steel, its domed, glittering curves reflecting the pale shimmer of the artificial sky above. The year was 2537, and the air around him hummed with the quiet, relentless pulse of a world that had long since conquered time, yet still remained haunted by it. Time travel, dream-walking, temporal engineering—all once considered the stuff of fiction—were now tangible, preserved relics of humanity's endless ambition. They were scattered in glass cases and display halls, a mere breath away from the realities of the present.
And yet, for all the advances that had been made, he could not escape the pull of the past. The weight of it lingered on him, a constant reminder of things lost, of promises broken.
He walked quietly through the east wing, his long coat swishing softly with every step. It was worn now, the fabric frayed at the cuffs and edges, but still suited him in its simple elegance. His hands rested in the deep pockets, the cold metal of forgotten keepsakes brushing against his fingers. His hair, once a rich dark brown, was now streaked with grey at the temples, and there was a certain weariness in the lines of his face. He moved carefully, deliberately—like someone who had learned the value of every step.
He had not dreamed in years.
Not since that night.
It had been a night like any other, until the dream had come again. And in the dream, she had been there—her face like the half-glimmer of something long lost, half-remembered, calling him back from the edges of time. But that was the last time. Since then, there had been nothing. The gap had widened between them. He had whispered her name into the void of his own consciousness, but it had never reached her. He had reached for her across the expanse of time, but the threads between them had snapped, frayed by the endless stretches of years.
The ache of her absence was something he had learned to live with. Or so he told himself.
But he had never tried to forget her. He couldn't.
It was the one thing he had never been able to let go of.
He passed by the artifacts on display—ancient watches, their intricate gears frozen in time, the delicate designs of early chronocasters that had once been the pride of temporal engineers, notebooks filled with careful calculations, their edges yellowed with age. These were the tools of a world obsessed with bending time to its will. Yet, to him, they all felt irrelevant, like relics of a dream that had long since died. They were nothing compared to what he had lost.
He stopped in front of a glass case, his heart suddenly heavy. There, among the many exhibits, was a painting—a painting so out of place that it took him a moment to fully comprehend what he was seeing.
The frame was old, gilded and worn, but it was the image within that stopped him cold.
It was a scene he knew well. One he had never expected to see again.
A man stood beneath a great ash tree, his back straight, his face partially turned toward the viewer as though he were waiting for someone. The garden around him was both beautiful and melancholic, wild ivy and creeping vines curling around statues long forgotten by time. The moonlight bathed the scene in silver, making the whole composition feel like a fragment of a lost dream.
His breath caught in his throat.
There was something in the way the figure stood—his posture, his expression—that made the man in the painting familiar. The curve of his shoulder, the slight tilt of his head, the glint of light in his eyes—they were all him. The artist had captured the form, but it was more than that. It was as if the very essence of him, the soul of who he had been in that moment, was immortalized on canvas.
The hair—dark, almost black, and wavy, had been rendered in strokes of deep blue and charcoal. His coat, too—long and dark, but a bit tattered at the edges. The familiar weight of time was on the man's features, the years that had passed since that moment could be read in every line and shadow of his form.
But it was not just the figure of the man that made him freeze. It was the place—the garden, the ash tree, the very feeling of the air, heavy with the scent of wild roses and damp earth. It was her garden. The place where she had once stood, with him.
The painting was more than just an image—it was a memory. His memory.
He stepped closer, his hands trembling slightly, but still he did not reach for the frame. He stood there, taking in every detail with a mixture of awe and disbelief. He could feel his pulse quickening, his chest tightening. A lifetime of questions rushed back in a flood. How? Why? Had she—had she remembered him? Had the years, the vast chasm of time between them, meant so little to her that she had captured him, captured them, as if he had never left?
He read the brass plaque beneath the painting, his voice catching in his throat. The words were simple, but they struck him like a blow:
Ael's Garden. Artist Unknown. c. 15th Century.
His heart thudded painfully against his ribs. Ael. His name.
And then, beneath the title, a single quote was etched, written in delicate script:
"I see you in the places we walked. I speak aloud in case you hear me.
The world feels too quiet now."
It was her handwriting. He knew it instinctively.
He took another step closer, the space between him and the painting narrowing. His breath fogged the glass slightly, but he didn't care. His eyes burned as he looked at the figure in the painting. There was so much to say, so much to explain. But the words were lost, buried beneath layers of time and sorrow.
For the first time in years, he reached out—not to touch, but just to be near. His fingers hovered near the glass, as though the mere act of proximity could pull him closer to her, to them.
A long silence passed. Time seemed to slow, stretching the moment into infinity. He let it stretch, not daring to move. The room around him was distant, and the weight of it all—the years of silence, of waiting—pressed down on him like a stone in his chest.
Finally, he whispered, so softly that only the echo of his own voice could hear:
"So you did remember me."
fin.