XVII. California - 1972

Remmick’s head was still reeling.

“The hell are you doing here?” his voice came low, taut as a bowstring. “And don’t start with your riddles... just answer me.”

The witch only smirked wider, leaning a little too casually against the log beside him, eyes darting toward the path you had taken, “Still handsome, still broody, and still barkin' orders. I’d forgotten how adorable ya are when you’re lost.”

He growled under his breath, “I’m not lost, I’m—”

“—enchanted?” she cut in, her lilting Irish vowels curling around the word like smoke. “Aye, I can see that plain as day. And gods above, isn’t she something? That face. That laugh. You always did have impeccable taste.”

Remmick’s eyes narrowed, “Don’t talk about her.”

“Oh, relax,” she teased, almost singing the words. “If it’s any comfort, I’ve crossed her path more than once these past hundred years. She never knew, o' course. Just a stranger in a crowd, or a woman passing her on the street. Watching her live the little lives she gets before...well, you know.”

His jaw clenched, and he shifted closer, “Why now? Why here?”

Her smirk softened just slightly, though the mischief still danced in her eyes, “Tell me, Remmick... are you finally ready to be with her? The real her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Aye, you do," she leaned in, her voice lowering to that honeyed, dangerous tone she’d used centuries ago. “I’ve grown tired of watching ya stumble through the ages like a lovesick fool. Tonight… tonight’s the night you reunite with your love.”

His chest tightened.

“How?” he asked, almost frantic. “Tell me how.”

She tilted her head toward the campfire, eyes glittering, “Like you did before. Read the inscription on the stone.”

His brows knit, “It’s… that simple?”

The witch chuckled, shaking her head, red hair catching the firelight like molten copper, “You never been the brightest candle in the chapel, Remmie.”

Before he could fire back, movement caught his eye.

You were returning, your bohemian dress swaying against your thighs, that smile lighting your face.

Remmick turned back to the witch—

—but the log beside him was empty.

The air still smelled faintly of her clove cigarettes, and somewhere deep in the dark, he swore he heard her laugh.

You caught sight of him, still sitting there with that unreadable expression—like he’d just been caught between a dream and a memory.

“You alright?” you asked, a hint of teasing in your voice as you sank down beside him, the glow of the campfire kissing your skin gold.

Without hesitation, you tossed your legs over his lap, the movement easy, natural—as if you'd known him for years instead of minutes.

The sudden weight of your legs—soft, warm, bare against him—stirred something low in his chest.

Remmick’s mouth curved into that slow, wicked smile, all Southern charm dripping from the edges, “Just fine, darlin’. Nothin’ worth worryin’ your pretty head over.”

He leaned back slightly, one arm resting behind you on the log, the other settling across your legs like it belonged there.

“’Sides,” he drawled, voice smooth as warm molasses, “I’d be a damn fool to let anything distract me when I got company like this.”

You smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a way that was entirely too knowing, “You always this good at schmoozin’?”

“Only when I’m inspired,” he shot back without missing a beat.

Your laugh was soft but edged with interest, and you leaned in closer, the smell of incense and weed clinging to you, “Mm. Sweet-talker.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, keeping his gaze locked on your—steady, deliberate, the kind of look that didn’t just meet your eyes, it held you there. “But truth is, darlin’… you’ve got a beauty that doesn’t need sweet talk to make it shine.”

That made your eyes soften, even if your mouth curved coyly.

“Careful,” you teased, “keep talkin’ like that and I might start believin’ you.”

“That’s the idea.”

The air between hummed—charged, taut—while somewhere in the distance, the band on stage had slowed to a dreamy, romantic number, its bassline lazy and hypnotic.

The heat from the campfire mingled with the tension between, and though you tried to play it cool, you didn’t pull your legs from his lap.

If anything, your toes brushed lightly against his hip, just to see what he’d do.

Remmick didn’t move, didn’t flinch—just let that slow smile deepen as if to say, Go on, sweetheart. Keep testin’ me.

Your smile curled like smoke, slow and deliberate, your gaze never wavering from his.

“Y’know,” you began, voice low and teasing, “I’m startin’ to think you’re holdin’ out on me. You sure we haven’t met before? ’Cause I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere. Maybe you’re some movie star slummin’ it with the rest of us.”

Remmick’s laugh was rich, warm, and threaded with that lazy drawl, “Can’t say I’ve ever been on a silver screen, sweetheart. But I’ll take the compliment.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, clearly unconvinced, your eyes glinting with playful suspicion. “I don’t buy it. You got that look about you... like someone I should remember.”

“Maybe I’m just memorable.”

You let out a small, amused huff, tilting your head as though to study him better.

Then, without warning, your hand slid slowly up his chest, your fingertips tracing deliberate patterns over the fabric of his shirt.

The instant you touched him, the world tilted.

The music, the chatter, the crackle of the campfire—everything dimmed, funneled into the heat of your hand and the rhythm of your pulse.

Your perfume was warm and faintly sweet, the scent winding around him like silk.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from yours, those deep, shining pools that threatened to drown him whole.

“Then at least,” you murmured, doe-eyed and coaxing, “tell me your name.”

“Remmick,” he said, honest and unhesitating.

Your lips curved in satisfaction, “Remmick.”

You repeated it like it tasted good in your mouth.

Then you leaned in, slow and deliberate, until your forehead rested lightly against his temple.

Your nose brushed down to the crook of his neck, inhaling him, feeling the shiver that raced down his spine.

A low, involuntary sound escaped him—half groan, half warning.

“Darlin’, you keep that up,” he murmured thickly, “I ain’t gonna be responsible for what happens next.”

Your smirk was pure sin.

“Well then, Remmi,” you cooed, drawing out his name, “how would you like to go back to my tent?”

He grinned, all teeth and mischief, “You ain’t said nothin’ but a word, darlin’.”

In one smooth motion, he slid an arm under your legs, the other bracing your back, and lifted you clean off the log.

You gasped—a startled, delighted sound that quickly melted into laughter as you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Warn a girl next time,” you teased breathlessly, though you made no move to be put down.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he drawled, smirking as he carried you away from the firelight, the night swallowing you both as you disappeared toward the shadowed sea of tents.

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.

.

The tent was dim, lit only by the faint amber glow of the campfire bleeding through the fabric walls, shadows dancing lazily across the space.

The air was warm, thick with the scent of pine, earth, and something sweeter—the mingling of your breaths.

Remmick’s shirt was long gone, tossed somewhere in the corner, his bare chest catching the low light as he leaned over you.

The fur rug beneath you was soft, almost obscenely inviting against your bare legs, your bohemian dress riding high from the way he had lowered you down.

His hands moved with the surety of a man who had been holding you for centuries, palms warm against your hips, fingers brushing your skin in ways that made your pulse skip.

You weren't shy about touching him either—your hands dragging over his chest, down the ridges of muscle, up over his shoulders like you were mapping every inch of him by touch alone.

There was a hunger there, but also a kind of reverence, as though you couldn’t believe he was real.

You lips parted, your body arching subtly toward his, the unspoken question in your gaze.

You wanted to keep going.

To drown in this.

But just as you began to move, his hands stilled your.

“Hold on a moment, darlin’,” he said softly, though there was tension in his voice. “Not ’til I bring you back.”

Your brows furrowed, “Bring me back? What are you talking about?”

He hesitated, his eyes searching yours like he was measuring how much truth you could bear.

Then, deciding words weren’t enough, he brought both hands to your face.

His touch was achingly tender, thumbs grazing your cheeks as if you might break beneath them.

And then, with no more warning, he slammed his lips into yours.

Your eyes flew wide at the sudden force of it... before the world inside you erupted.

It hit like a lightning strike.

The stone.

The years.

The blood.

The centuries.

1504.

1932.

1957.

Your Remmick—always your Remmick.

Every laugh, every tear, every goodbye that had carved itself into your soul came rushing back in a flood that left you breathless.

When he finally pulled away, you gasped, then threw your arms around his neck, holding him so tight he could barely breathe.

“Remmi!” you blurted, voice breaking with joy and relief. “Remmi, I remember! God... I love you!”

His own voice cracked when he answered, “I love you too, darlin’. I love you so much it hurts.”

You pulled back just enough to see him, cupping his face in both hands as your thumbs swept across his cheeks, your eyes glassy and searching.

Then your fingers tangled into his hair.

“Your hair,” you half-sniffled, half-laughed, the sound trembling.

For a heartbeat, he looked almost uncertain, “You… don’t like it?”

His tone was careful—protective—like he was bracing for you to say something cruel.

The fluffy, feathered seventies cut was far from his old styles, after all.

Your smile was molten warmth.

You leaned in, kissing him deeply.

“I love it,” you murmured against his lips.

The kiss deepened, slow at first, then growing more urgent, more consuming.

Your hands roamed over him with intent, your body pressing closer, silently asking for more.

But once again, he stopped you—though this time it was harder.

His lips left yours only to trail in a feverish storm over yours jaw, your neck, your collarbone, even your chest, his restraint unraveling by inches.

“Hold on, baby,” he muttered between kisses, his breath warm against your skin. “Can’t let ya get hurt again. Gotta go back ’fore somethin’ happens.”

“I need you, Remmi,” you sighed into his ear, desperation bleeding into every syllable, "Right now."

"M'not takin' any chances, darlin'," he denied.

Hastily, he cupped your cheek.

“I gcuirim an mhaighdean mhín seo ar ais dá haimsir féin. Imthe go deo. Riamh mo,” he recited, the Irish words rolling from his tongue like an old prayer—one he had carried for lifetimes.

"I send this fair maiden back to her time. Forever gone. Never mine."

Your breath caught at the sound of it.

He pressed one last, lingering kiss to your lips, his hand brushing a few loose strands of hair from your face.

Then his forehead rested against yours, his voice dropping to a whisper, raw and certain.

“I’ll see ye soon… a ghrá.”

And before you could speak, his hands gripped your shoulders—and with one firm shove, you stumbled backward out of the tent.

The full moonlight swallowed you, blinding white, and in an instant... you were gone.

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XVI. California - 1972

The festival pulsed like a living, breathing creature stretched across the California desert night.

Endless rows of tents—tie-dyed, patchwork, nylon, or just beat-up sheets pinned to branches—stretched as far as the eye could see, forming a mismatched patchwork quilt over the dusty ground.

The air was thick with the mingling scents of incense, sweat, patchouli, and marijuana, clinging to every strand of shaggy, sun-bleached hair and every suede fringe of someone’s vest.

There were guitars slung across backs, barefoot girls in bell-bottoms twirling through the dust, arms painted with henna and flowers tucked behind ears.

There were boys with chipped teeth and faraway eyes—veterans, draft dodgers, dreamers—hunched around radios or passed out in the grass with joints still burning in their fingers.

"Make love, not war" was carved into tree trunks, painted on banners, shouted into the warm wind.

In the far-off distance, barely visible through the light mist and haze of smoke, a stage burned with swirling strobes and hot-colored lights.

A band was deep into a psychedelic jam—fuzzy guitars crying through a kaleidoscope of distortion while the bass throbbed like a second heartbeat beneath the sand.

People danced without rhythm, stoned out of their minds or high on the sheer cosmic joy of it all, fingers pointed to the heavens, bathed in music and moonlight.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, like a shadow drifting between dream and reality, walked a man.

Remmick moved slowly, deliberately, his boots crunching over dead grass and abandoned bottle caps.

His long coat flapped faintly in the breeze, and the soft, contemplative hum escaping his lips was almost drowned by the music swirling in the air.

The glow of firelight licked the sharp lines of his face in warm orange waves.

He didn’t look like he belonged here, not entirely—too old for it, too still, too... timeless.

The silver gleam of the full moon traced his profile, the same way it had once in 1504, the memory sharp enough to draw blood.

That night had been just like this—clear, cool, the stars close enough to touch.

He remembered the scent of your hair, the tremble in your voice when you told him you loved him for the first time.

It haunted him.

It ruled him.

Centuries of blood and smoke and running hadn't dulled a single detail.

Your laugh, your eyes, your hands in his, the softness of your cheek when you cried out his name—all of it remained, pressed into his memory like ink into a sacred page.

No one else had ever come close.

He’d wandered continents.

Lived among kings and cutthroats.

Buried too many names.

And yet, not once, in all his years, had he found anyone who made him feel as you had.

He was a man cursed not by the bite that made him immortal—but by the loss that had hollowed out his soul.

And then it happened.

A yank.

An ache in his chest so sudden, it nearly doubled him over.

It wasn't pain—not exactly.

It was pull.

The same invisible string that had always bound him to you had just gone taut, thrumming in his chest like a plucked chord.

His heart—long since stilled in any human sense—gave a hard, reverberating thud.

And there—past a grove of overgrown weeds, around a rusted-out VW van with daisy decals and a sagging tie-dye hammock—he saw you.

You were sitting on a frayed woven blanket around a small campfire with four others—young, laughing, passing a joint between them with the languid intimacy of old friends.

The firelight licked at your profile, and for a moment, he thought he was hallucinating.

His lips parted, unbidden.

It was you.

Exactly as you had always been.

Exactly as he'd remembered.

Your long legs were tucked beneath you, a well-loved guitar resting against your knee.

Your smile—God, your smile—was the same crooked spark that had lit up his world all those lifetimes ago.

Your laughter punched the air and settled right into his chest like it belonged there.

It did.

It always had.

You leaned back to pass the joint to a girl in a crochet halter top, head tilted, hair falling like a curtain of night around your shoulders.

Remmick stood completely still, unable to speak, unable to breathe.

It wasn’t just that you.

It was you.

Your soul.

Your presence.

That pull.

The way the air itself bowed in reverence around you.

He stepped back into the shadows, heart racing for the first time in centuries.

The pain was different now.

It was sweeter.

Hopeful.

Terrifying.

You were here.

Alive.

And you didn’t even know him yet.

But soon... you would.

Because Remmick would cross all the lifetimes again to find you.

A hundred times, a thousand times more.

And this time?

He wasn’t letting you go.

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.

.

The fire crackled like an old record under needle, its golden light dancing across the circle of faces that surrounded it.

Smoke curled into the warm California night, mixing with the ever-present haze of weed that hung low over the sprawl of tents stretching across the fields like patchwork.

The air was thick with the perfume of beer, sweat, and incense—an unholy baptism of the era.

Somewhere in the far, far distance, over the distant hills of tie-dye and twinkling string lights, the festival's main stage throbbed with psychedelic funk, distorted guitar wails rolling through the night like waves.

You sat with your legs crisscrossed on a thick woven blanket by the fire, head tipped back in laughter.

A daisy chain crowned your halo of thick, blown-out hair, and the flicker of flame brought out the golden warmth of your skin like polished amber.

You sun-print bohemian dress clung loosely to your shoulders, the flared sleeves flowing like liquid when you gestured.

The hem danced teasingly high on your thighs, but modesty had no place in your little pocket of freedom.

Not here.

Not now.

David had your guitar in his lap, lazily strumming a few jazzy chords with a dreamy smile on his lips, his bare chest painted with crude swirls of glow-in-the-dark paint.

“Tell me y’all heard that solo from the second band earlier,” he drawled, one eye half-lidded as he picked aimlessly. “Shit was like… Miles Davis met Hendrix and they had a weird, soulful baby.”

“You say that about every band we see,” Jolie giggled, drawing long from the joint between her fingers.

Her long black hair was braided with feathers, and her cheeks were dotted with glitter.

“No, no,” Martha countered, eyes glassy but alert, “he’s right this time. The sound was so… mmmph. Like syrup on my spine.”

Violet leaned over, swiping the joint and puffing like a pro, “I don’t care what anyone says, Joni still slays them all. Y’all just can’t handle a woman with a pen sharper than your egos.”

“She’s not wrong,” you added with a soft smile, watching the embers swirl skyward. “Joni’ll gut you with a lyric and make you thank her for the honor.”

More laughter, warm and lazy.

It was a good kind of night.

Your laughter felt like smoke rings—round, fragile, floating.

Untouchable.

“Oh shit, Jo,” Violet suddenly perked up, nudging Jolie. “We said we’d stop by that one dude’s tent—the one with the abs and the motorcycle.”

Jolie blinked, eyes widening, “Oh, that’s tonight? Let’s go!”

They stood in a flurry of bangles and bare feet.

Martha joined them, tossing a wink, “Don’t wait up.”

David stood too, brushing grass off his patchy jeans, “And I see a blondie with legs to heaven over there. You cool if I bounce?”

You simply waved him off, smile easy, “Go flirt, Romeo.”

You were alone now, but not lonely.

The fire danced just for you.

You reached for your guitar, nestled it against your chest like a lover, and began to play.

The music that came out wasn’t folksy or casual—it was molten and precise, the kind of rhythm that told one you'd spent years making those strings your second skin.

Your fingers glided across the frets with an elegance that didn’t demand attention—it deserved it.

Chords layered with complexity and soul, humming from the hollow body in a language older than words.

From the shadows, Remmick was held captive.

There, under a California moon and caught in a haze of sound and smoke, sat the same woman who had died for him.

Your soul reborn.

The same face.

The same voice.

Even the same hands—he would know your touch anywhere.

His throat burned.

His undead heart shuddered.

He stepped forward, eyes never leaving you.

He slid the banjo from his back slowly, reverently, and plucked a simple melody that answered yours.

It wasn't showy—it was courtship.

Conversation.

Every note his soul had been aching to say for centuries.

You didn’t notice at first, not until he was closer, his silhouette easing into the light of your fire, music harmonizing perfectly with yours.

Your fingers slowed.

Stopped.

You looked up.

He was cast in silver moonlight and fireglow, with wild hair and a rugged, aged beauty that looked carved from stone.

But his smile was soft, easy, magnetic.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, letting his banjo fall quiet. “But I couldn’t help myself.”

You blinked, stunned for half a second by the sincerity of it.

You set down your guitar and gave a lopsided smile, “That was beautiful. Real clean.”

He stepped closer, slow as syrup, and took a seat beside you on the log, the fabric of your dress brushing his thigh.

“Thank ya kindly,” he said, voice wrapped in that Southern molasses, deep and warm. “But I reckon next to you, I’m just tryin’ to keep up.”

Your smile widened, eyes gleaming under the firelight.

Remmick’s eyes drank you in—the way your legs crossed, the way your dress caught the wind, the way the gold in your irises flickered.

And oh, the ache in his chest—raw and new again, as if decades hadn’t passed between kisses.

You didn’t know him.

But he knew.

You were here.

Alive.

And once more, unknowingly, you had drawn him into orbit.

“Couldn’t help but follow the sound of you.”

You raised a brow, amused. “The sound of me?”

He gestured toward the air, “Your music, sugar.”

That made you smile—coy and slow, eyes flicking up and down his frame, “Well, you sure you weren’t just following the scent of my joint? S'the good stuff.”

He chuckled low in his chest, “Tempting as that may be, I’ve got better taste.”

You tilted your head, eyeing him boldly.

The man was handsome—wildly so.

A frame that could’ve been carved from red clay, muscles roped under a soft, worn shirt, banjo slung across his back like a second soul.

“You sure you haven’t been following me all night?” you teased. “I coulda sworn I’ve seen you before.”

His smile faltered just slightly, but he covered it with an easy smirk, “You might’ve. Been driftin’ all evening. But I know I’ve seen you. Couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

You liked the way he talked.

The way his words curled at the ends.

“Is that so?”

“That’s so,” he said, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You got a light about you, sweetheart.”

You paused, feeling your cheeks warm despite the fire.

Your hand came up to brush the string at your throat—a simple leather cord that held a pale green stone pendant, worn smooth with time and touch.

A faint carving could be seen in the firelight, something old and faded.

Remmick’s heart seized.

He knew that stone.

He knew every line of that carving.

His breath stalled in his chest.

You noticed.

“Oh—this?” you said, following his gaze, fingers closing around it fondly. “It’s kinda funny. My dad took me on a road trip through Mississippi when I was a kid. Said he wanted me to see where our people came from. We stopped at this little town—real tiny, one of those blink-and-you-miss-it places—and there was this old pawn shop with weird stuff everywhere. I don’t know... I had to have this. Something in my gut just... wouldn’t let me leave without it.”

You glanced up at him, eyes curious and slightly clouded.

“You ever seen one like it before?”

Remmick’s voice was low, “Somethin’ close.”

You nodded slowly, your smile returning, gentler now, “Guess it was meant to be mine.”

Then, with a little teasing gleam in your eye, you stood up, brushing off your dress—short and flared and printed with gold sunbursts, swaying around the tops of your thighs.

“I gotta hit the ladies’,” you said, touching his shoulder as you passed him.

Your fingers lingered for a second too long.

“Don’t go vanishing on me, stranger.”

And with that, you walked off into the dark, hips swaying, hair catching moonlight.

Remmick sat there, hands clasped, the firelight flickering against his chest as he stared after you.

The necklace.

The necklace.

In all his centuries, in all your lives, none of your reincarnations had ever had it.

Not until now.

Remmick barely breathed.

Still frozen in place, his gaze fixed on the place where you had disappeared behind the row of portable toilets and canvas booths, the whispers of your perfume and laughter still dancing in the air like incense smoke.

That necklace.

That necklace.

He’d seen it last cradled in the hollow of your throat—his first you—centuries ago.

A stone etched with words he hadn’t been able to forget even as lifetimes slipped through his fingers like sand.

But you hadn’t had it in 1932.

You didn’t wear it in 1957 either.

No—not once in any reincarnation had it reappeared.

Now it hung gently against this version’s chest, catching moonbeams like it had never been lost.

Remmick stared down at his hands, the calluses, the quiet tremor in his thumb.

Was this a sign?

A mistake?

A mercy?

He didn’t know.

For the first time in ages, he didn’t know.

Just as the fog of thoughts began to thicken, a voice interrupted him—a voice he hadn’t heard in centuries, but could have picked out of a storm.

“Jaysus, would ya look at you. Still broodin'”

Remmick jolted, snapping his head to the side like he’d been struck.

Sitting there beside him—smirking, arms crossed over her chest, wild red hair cascading freely down her back—was her.

Or rather, that witch.

The very same sorceress who’d spun your fates into a thousand bloody knots back when the world was all dirt roads and dagger promises.

But now, she was barefoot, standing confidently in bell-bottom jeans and a patchwork tube top, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and mischief glinting like gold in her eyes.

She cocked her head, grin deepening.

“What’s the matter, Remmie? Cat got your centuries?”

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XV. New York - 1957

The days slipped by like petals on wind.

Two weeks passed in soft succession, and the world, it seemed, had cracked open for you—bloomed into something brilliant and full.

Remmick had a knack for showing you the city as if it were new.

You snuck out most nights—not just for each other, but for something beautiful, something that stirred the soul.

The kind of wonder only old love could birth.

You walked hand in hand through the winding paths of Central Park, where the lamps flickered golden and the night air kissed your cheeks.

Sometimes you'd sit under the trees and talk for hours about everything—your dreams, music, colors, stories that had no endings.

He loved how your laugh curved like a question mark, how your mind moved fast and fine like thread through a needle.

Then there was the cathedral.

It was your secret place—a towering structure of stone and silence tucked away from the noise.

Remmick had taken you there one night, the stained glass dark with dusk, the pews empty, the saints watching in still reverence.

Moonlight shone through the high windows, slicing across the altar in quiet beams.

There, you had sat at the front and sang.

It was barely a whisper at first.

But then it grew—pure and trembling, filling the rafters, touching the bones of the building.

Your voice wrapped around every pillar, every arch, like smoke and silver.

Notes that rose like prayer.

Notes that fell like tears.

Remmick didn’t breathe.

He had never heard anything like it—not in his own time, not in this one.

It was the kind of sound that softened stone.

And as your voice swept through the air like a ghost of grace, his chest ached.

“Sing again,” he whispered when you were done, his voice hoarse with awe.

You didn’t.

Not yet.

But you smiled like you knew what you'd done to him.

Still, you had yet to kiss.

Despite everything—every glance that lingered too long, every hand that brushed against the other—you held that line.

Like something sacred.

Like waiting made it more real.

But Alonzo was beginning to notice.

He wasn’t dumb.

You came home glowing some nights, lips soft with some secret, always humming like a schoolgirl.

And on one particular evening, it all came to a head.

It was just past midnight.

The city murmured outside the Harlem windows, its breath low and silver.

You stood beside your bedroom window, fingers curled around the sill, a smile stitched on your face like dawn.

Remmick was just outside on the fire escape, balanced with his usual grace.

“You better get before Alonzo comes back,” you teased softly, tugging playfully at his sleeve.

He grinned, “I will... but first—”

He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek.

The warmth of it bloomed down to your ribs.

You barely had time to exhale before—

SLAM.

The door burst open, crashing against the wall like thunder.

Alonzo stood in the doorway, eyes ablaze, his body tense as a spring.

The newspaper he’d been reading earlier was crushed in his hand like a weapon.

“I knew it!” he roared. “You got him sneakin’ in through your damn window?!”

Remmick’s face went pale but calm.

“Remmi, go!” you hissed, panicked.

"See ya tomorrow night, darlin'," he said quickly.

Without hesitation, he slipped out the window and scaled down the fire escape like a shadow.

But not before casting you one last look.

You watched his back disappear, your cheek still warm where he’d kissed.

Alonzo turned to you, chest heaving, “Are you outta your mind?!”

“I am not a child anymore!” you snapped, stepping forward.

“I don’t care! What the hell are you doing with some white man?”

Your jaw clenched, “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Like hell you don’t!” he barked. “Not under my roof!”

His voice cracked the air, filled with betrayal and panic.

You stared at him—really stared.

Saw not just the fury, but the fear beneath it.

But you couldn’t let that stop you.

Not now.

Without another word, Alonzo turned and stormed out, the door slamming behind him so hard the walls shook.

You stood in the stillness that followed, breath sharp in your chest, your hand slowly rising to touch the place on your cheek where Remmick’s lips had been.

Soft.

Gentle.

And even with your brother’s voice still echoing down the hall, you smiled.

Because no matter what storm came next… something had already bloomed.

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.

The next morning came hard and fast—like a wave you couldn’t brace for.

Alonzo was already waiting in the kitchen, arms crossed, jaw locked, eyes storm-dark.

“Either you stop seein’ him,” he growled, voice low and sharp, “or you get the hell out of this house.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Daphne gasped from the other side of the table, tears springing instantly to her eyes.

“Alonzo, no! This is crazy!” she cried, reaching for his arm, but he jerked away. “We can talk this through, baby, please—we can figure it out, there’s a better way than this!”

But he wasn’t budging.

His fists were clenched tight, knuckles white, the skin around his eyes drawn and hard.

“There ain’t no better way. I told her. I told her what kinda man he was, what kind of danger she was bringin’ in this house. She wanna keep foolin’ around with some white boy—fine. But she won’t do it here.”

Tears welled in your eyes, hot and furious.

“You’ll never see me again!” you hissed, voice tight with rage and hurt.

And with that, you stormed into your room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the picture frames.

Daphne ran after you, palm flat against the wood, pleading softly. “(y/n), honey, please don’t go like this—he’s just scared. You both are…”

But you didn’t answer.

Your heart beat too loud, too hard.

You were shaking as you pulled your suitcase from under the bed, stuffing clothes in without thinking.

Your mind was already beyond the walls, already miles away, with him.

You didn’t say goodbye.

Before night fell, you cracked open your window and left a note—creased, handwritten, weighted with hope—on the sill.

Meet me at the old scrapyard tonight. Please. – (y/n)

The sky was ink-dark and full of secrets by the time you slipped through the alleys, suitcase hanging at your side.

The world felt changed—stark and clean, like something old had just been shed.

The metal skeletons of the scrapyard stretched above you, rusted and reverent, the scent of dust and oil thick in the air.

Then you saw him.

Remmick.

Standing tall between old car doors and twisted chain link, coat undone, shirt slightly wrinkled, like he’d come flying the second he saw your note.

Your heart jumped.

You let the suitcase fall.

And you ran.

He caught you mid-stride, arms sweeping you up effortlessly, a wild laugh escaping him as he spun you around, clinging to you like gravity itself.

“A ghrá,” he whispered into your hair, his Irish lilt soft with wonder, “A ghrá mo chroí...”

He cupped your face, thumbing away the wind from your cheek.

His eyes—those eternal eyes—drank you in like salvation.

“How would ya like to go to Ireland?”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed through your tears, palms framing his face like you were holding a precious thing.

"I don’t care where,” you breathed, “so long as I’m with you.”

Remmick’s smile faltered for just a second—something tender and aching in the way he looked at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

That this was real.

And then... he kissed you.

Not like the first time on the fire escape.

Not like a flirt or a tease.

This was full.

Deep.

Reverent.

It was a kiss that remembered everything.

And suddenly—you did too.

Your breath caught in your throat as the world tilted.

Like a dam bursting, every memory came crashing through you—1932 Mississippi, the hazy heat of the juke, the sting of betrayal, the sharp pang of a stake driven through you, the cathedral where she’d sang for him, the kiss in the woods, the farm, the stone, the first time you ever saw him standing in the sun.

Your knees buckled.

You gasped into his mouth.

Remmick pulled back instantly, eyes searching yours with concern.

“Darlin’?”

You stared at him—at his face, his hands, the curve of his lips—and it all made sense.

It all made sense.

“I remember,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Remmi... I remember.”

His eyes went wide.

“Eíre. The farm. Your father. The juke joint. Everything.”

Tears blurred your vision.

You laughed and sobbed at the same time, holding his face like it might vanish.

“I remember you.”

He didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t.

He just pulled you into him—his arms locked tight around your back, his face buried in your neck, overcome by the weight of four hundred years and the miracle of finally, finally being seen again.

You stood like that, two souls wrapped in the quiet scrapyard, wrapped in time.

Unbroken.

Unforgotten.

You held his face, thumbs brushing away the beginnings of tears at the corners of his eyes.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with awe, “I love you so, so much.”

Remmick’s lips parted, his own heart rising like the tide—ready to finally, finally speak the words that had lived in his bones for centuries.

But he never got the chance.

A gunshot cracked like lightning, striking the ground near his feet with a sharp metallic ping!

The sound echoed through the scrapyard.

Startled, you yelped and jumped, clutching instinctively to Remmick’s chest.

His head snapped to the side, eyes narrowing, body immediately tense and protective.

From the jagged edge of shadow between rusted metal and alley brick, Alonzo emerged.

Gun raised.

Face livid.

“Get away from her,” he growled, voice shaking with rage.

“Alonzo, stop!” you cried, your voice torn with panic. “Just leave us alone!”

Remmick immediately shoved you behind him, his tall frame shielding you entirely.

His posture was calm, but his jaw was set—tight and trembling with restrained fury.

His red-tinged eyes locked with Alonzo’s, the weight of lifetimes of grief balancing on a knife’s edge.

Alonzo’s hands were steady.

He cocked the hammer.

“No!” you screamed, reaching out just as the trigger squeezed.

A single crack rang out.

And time stopped.

The bullet never reached Remmick.

Because you had moved.

With no hesitation—no thought but love—you leapt between them.

It struck you squarely between the eyes.

Your body jolted back like a puppet with strings suddenly severed.

And then you dropped.

Like a falling star.

Like a final prayer.

Like the world itself had come undone.

Remmick didn’t move at first.

He stared at your crumpled form, blood slowly pooling beneath your curls, steam rising in the cold night air.

Disbelief hollowed his chest.

A sound began to claw its way up his throat.

Something ancient.

Primal.

Wretched.

“NO—!”

His scream tore through the night, a wail of pure anguish that rattled the walls around him.

And then, like a dam bursting, fury overtook him.

Bones cracked.

Limbs stretched.

His face twisted into something monstrous, something unholy—fangs long and jagged, eyes glowing bright with wrath, hands now claws long enough to rip through flesh like paper.

He charged.

Alonzo barely had time to breathe.

Remmick roared as he collided with him.

The alley was filled with screams—wet and human—ripped from Alonzo’s throat as the vampire tore into him, shredding him like tissue beneath a storm.

Blood splattered against rusted metal, warm and dark.

It didn’t last long.

But Remmick made sure it hurt.

By the time it was over, there was nothing left of the man who once swore he’d protect his sister.

Still trembling, breathing hard, Remmick turned back.

His monstrous form shivered—began to recede—bones resetting, skin smoothing, fangs retreating until he was just a man again.

A man whose soul had just shattered for the third time in his eternal life.

He dropped to his knees beside you.

“A ghrá...” he whimpered, lifting you gently from the gravel, cradling you against his chest like you were something sacred.

Blood had painted your face, but your expression was peaceful.

Like you had never stopped dreaming.

Remmick wept.

Tears slipped freely down his face as he rocked you slowly, forehead pressed against your temple.

“(y/n)... baby, no, no... please don’t—please don’t do this again...”

He brushed the blood from your cheeks with shaking fingers.

Kissed your brow.

Kissed your lips.

“I woulda healed...” he whispered brokenly, “You didn’t know... you didn’t know...”

His voice cracked.

He tucked your head beneath his chin, closed his eyes, and pressed his face into the curve of your neck—the same place he’d once whispered promises.

The same place he had memorized long ago.

The scrapyard was silent.

Only the night, and the weight of love lost yet again, remained.

.

.

XIV. New York - 1957

The rest of the dance had been... dull.

You'd spent the majority of it hugging the wall, smiling politely at small talk you didn’t care for, and dodging Isaiah’s wandering gaze like a professional.

Your heels ached by the second hour, and your head felt stuffed with gauze.

Somewhere between the swing band’s second set and a lukewarm glass of red punch, you had found herself drifting—staring off into the lights, imagining what it’d feel like to be swept off your feet by someone who wasn’t just charming, but sincere... someone who didn’t try to impress with slick talk and pressed suits.

Someone like him.

But the thought had seemed ridiculous.

You hadn’t seen him again after that strange moment under the bleachers, and it was probably for the best.

The way your heart had thudded—too fast, too heavy—when your eyes met was enough to send you running the other way.

Now, back in the quiet of your bedroom, you hummed softly to yourself as you straightened up the trail you and Daphne had left in your whirlwind of getting ready.

Bobby pins and eyeliner lids littered the vanity, your pearl earrings glinting where you'd tossed them beside a half-zipped clutch.

A lone stocking dangled off the bedpost like it had fainted.

The apartment walls were thin, and from the other side of the closed hallway door, the unmistakable rhythm of Alonzo and Daphne “getting busy” filled the space—moans muffled, a headboard knocking.

You rolled your eyes with a knowing little scoff, muttering under your breath, “Ain’t they tired yet?”

Slipping out of your petticoat and slipping into a short, soft nightgown, you padded barefoot to the window, pushing it up with a creak.

The summer air kissed your skin, thick with heat and city smells—hot tar, cooling brick, fried food drifting up from the Chinese takeout a block down.

You leaned out for a breath of relief, arms folded on the windowsill.

Then—clink.

Your ears perked.

A metallic noise, faint but distinct.

Your eyes flicked toward the alley that split the apartment building from the tenement next door.

Narrow and dim, it should’ve been empty.

But there, half in shadow, half haloed by the amber light of a streetlamp, stood a figure.

Your stomach dropped, then fluttered.

He was smiling.

"You crazy? You can't—What are you doin’ sneakin’ around here?" you whisper-shouted, wide-eyed.

“C’mon,” Remmick said, casual as anything, gesturing toward the street. “Meet me on the corner.”

You blinked at him, your voice caught between disbelief and intrigue. “How do you even know where I live?”

He shrugged, smug, “Let’s meet on the, uh—”

“No,” you cut in quickly, glancing behind your shoulder. “You can’t be here. If my brother sees you…”

He leaned against the rusted rail of an abandoned bike rack, arms folded, amused by your panic, “Can I come up?”

“No,” you snapped, but your voice was lower now.

You couldn’t lie—her pulse had already quickened.

Something about him—this man—wasn’t normal.

He had a pull to him, magnetic.

Familiar.

“But I found ya,” he said, grinning as if that proved something monumental.

You stepped back from the window slightly, torn between laughter and exasperation.

“You can’t. If Alonzo finds you, he’ll…”

You didn’t finish the thought.

Your brother was loving, yes, but there was fire behind that love.

And he didn’t play about your safety.

“I’ll make him like me,” Remmick said easily. “Everybody does.”

“There’s no one everybody likes,” you countered, skeptical.

He smirked, that lazy charm dripping from his voice, “Yeah… but so long as you like me, m'okay with that.”

You huffed, cheeks warming, trying not to smile.

“Shush! Please, you gotta go.”

He didn’t.

His eyes flicked up to the fire escape, calculating.

He took a step forward, then another, beginning to slip off his blazer as if this was his place.

“No, no, no—Jesus,” you muttered as he bunched the jacket and tossed it to the side.

Then he jumped.

Not just a hop, not a scramble—he launched himself up, catching the bars with impossible ease.

His muscles flexed under the rolled sleeves of his dress shirt as he hoisted himself up, floor by floor, until he was climbing with frightening grace.

You paused—momentarily stunned by the display.

Damn.

"Night, (y/n)!" Daphne called, voice sing-songy and full of flirtation as she fixed herself a nightcap before disappearing into her room again.

Panicked, you spun on your heel and dashed across the room.

“Night, Daph!” you called back, trying to sound casual.

But, when you turned around, he was already there.

“Jesus!” you gasped, hand flying to your chest.

“Sorry,” he said, unapologetic.

“You’re a fast climber,” she blinked at how close he hung, just outside the threshold of your window.

“Among other talents.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled—he was infuriating and captivating all at once.

“Alright, you’ve seen me. You can go now. Before somethin’ bad happens.”

“Run away with me,” he said suddenly, the grin still there, but softer.

She laughed.

"Hey, m'serious."

“Oh yes, serious. Tomorrow I’ll run away with you, sure.”

“Sounds great.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Crazy 'bout you.”

You blinked, “You just met me tonight.”

“On the contrary,” he said slowly, leaning forward a little, “I think our souls have known each other a long time.”

You paused, your chest tightening.

There was something in the way he said it… a tone beneath the flirtation.

Something too true.

“Oh really?” you lifted a brow, trying to play it off. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Remmick.”

You wrinkled your nose, teasing, “That’s a funny name.”

“Imma funny man.”

“You certainly are.”

You both smiled now, and for a moment, the air between felt too charged to move in.

“Meet me tomorrow night,” he said, quieter now. “Corner of 52nd and Third.”

You hesitated—your mind said no, but your body leaned forward before you could stop.

You nodded, shy despite yourself, “Okay.”

He leaned closer, lips barely parting, gaze falling to your—

But your finger pressed gently to his mouth, stopping him.

His eyes opened, surprised.

"Gonna have to work a little harder for that one, Remmi,” you whispered, the nickname falling easily from your lips as you stepped in and brushed your mouth just beside his ear.

You nibbled gently on the lobe, teasing, then kissed it better before pulling back with a wicked grin.

He stared at you like you hung the moon, hands still gripping the fire escape rail. “Not a problem,” he breathed, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as he lowered himself.

“Night, darlin',” he said, voice low.

You watched him climb down, slower this time, until he dropped lightly onto the alley pavement.

When he turned the corner, disappearing into the Harlem night, you finally let out the breath you'd been holding.

You leaned on the windowsill again, hands warm where he’d touched you.

Funny name or not… you were already halfway gone.

.

.

.

The scent of frying eggs and crisping bacon filled the small Harlem apartment, curling like a gentle lullaby through its modest kitchen.

The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the golden hush of morning, sunlight pooling across the tiled floor like spilled honey.

The city outside was already humming to life—vendors shouting from the sidewalks, radios playing from stoops, horns barking from passing cabs.

But inside, it was peaceful, warm, and full of the soft symphony of familiarity.

Daphne stood at the stove, her hair wrapped in a bright scarf, dancing lightly to the tune of My Baby Just Cares for Me playing from the radio.

Her hips swayed subtly as she flipped pancakes, grinning at the sizzling sound.

You stood beside the sink, your hands submerged in soapy water, rinsing last night’s dinner plates.

You were humming to yourself, a quiet tune that came unbidden—a dreamy, floating melody that hadn't left you since the night before.

Since him.

Your skin still tingled where his fingers had brushed your own.

Your mind fluttered back to the way he spun you, the way he said your name like it was the only one that had ever mattered.

There was a glow to you that hadn’t been there yesterday.

A lift in your shoulders.

A softness to your eyes.

“Mm,” Alonzo muttered, half-listening to the radio and flipping through the morning paper as he sat at the kitchen table in his undershirt and slacks, “You girls hear about that riot in Brooklyn? Rogues again.”

“Can we not talk about them over breakfast?” Daphne asked sweetly without looking up, placing a plate in front of him before turning back to the pan.

You rinsed another plate and set it in the drying rack, still humming.

Alonzo glanced up at you, catching the distant look in your eyes, “You in love or somethin’, girl?”

You blinked, caught, before offering a sly smile and shaking your head, “Just had a nice night.”

“Mmhmm,” Daphne teased knowingly, “I saw you dancing, by the way.”

“I was dancing,” you replied, playing coy, wiping your hands on a towel.

“With someone?”

“With a lot of someones,” you said, feigning innocence.

Your back was to them, but the slight flush in your cheeks gave you away.

Alonzo chuckled, mouth full of eggs, “Well… I owe you an apology.”

You turned halfway, brows raised.

“’Bout Isaiah. Shouldn’t’ve pushed him on you like that,” he mumbled, looking half-ashamed, half-relieved to say it, “Was just thinkin’ he was safe, y’know? Good kid, nice family.”

You smiled softly, touched, “Thank you, Zo.”

“Still want you with somebody good. That’s all. You deserve that.”

You nodded, heart warmed—but your curiosity itched at your chest like a secret you couldn’t hold in.

“Can I ask you somethin’?” you asked, drying a plate slowly.

“Shoot.”

You hesitated, “...Hypothetically... what if I wanted to be with someone... white?”

The silence that followed was swift and heavy.

Like a record needle had been yanked off a song mid-note.

Daphne stopped stirring the grits.

Alonzo folded his paper in slow, deliberate creases.

“What?” he asked, though he’d heard you clear as day.

You turned, still holding the dish towel, more sheepish now, “I mean... hypothetically.”

Alonzo’s face hardened, “No. Absolutely not.”

Your brows furrowed, “Why not?”

He leaned forward, voice sharpening.

“Because white men only want one thing from girls like you. They wanna use you, then throw you aside. You think they gonna love you? Marry you? Raise kids with you in this world?”

“That’s not true,” you said, voice quiet but firm.

“I’ll be dead in the ground before I let one of them come near you.”

Your heart thumped, heat flaring behind your eyes, “Don’t talk like that.”

“I will,” he snapped. “I ain’t losin’ you to no fantasy. You hear me?”

Daphne stayed silent, lips pursed as she kept her eyes on the stove.

You stared at your brother, stunned at the fire in his voice.

At the way his protective love had curdled so fast into control.

Then, he asked it, the question that cracked everything open.

“Why you askin’, anyway?”

“I was just curious,” you said tightly. “But even if I was gonna go through with it… I should be allowed to. It’s my life.”

He scoffed, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair.

“While you live under my roof, you follow my rules.”

Your jaw tensed.

Then, without a word, you turned sharply on your heel.

“I pay rent just like anybody else,” you said coldly, your back to them as you tossed the towel down on the counter. “And I’m grown, Alonzo. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

He started to respond, but the slamming of your bedroom door cut him off.

For a moment, the kitchen was still.

Daphne plated the last pancake, then finally turned around, arms folded loosely over her chest.

“She is grown,” she said softly, eyes meeting his. “Maybe it’s time you came to terms with that.”

Alonzo stared down at his paper again, but the words swam and blurred.

He’d always protected you.

Always been the one to make the decisions when no one else was around to do it.

But you weren't a child anymore.

And deep down, he knew—whatever it was that had her floating this morning, it wasn’t just dancing.

It was someone.

.

.

XIII. New York - 1957

The buzz of a sewing machine hummed beneath the rhythm of scissors snipping fabric and the sharp, practiced whistle of steam from a nearby iron.

Dusty golden light streamed in from the high, smudged windows, catching in the rising motes and hanging like breath in the air.

It was early afternoon, and the back of Hartfield & Sons—the corner where all the in-house seamstresses worked—was alive with color, chatter, and movement.

Bolts of satin and wool lay unraveled across long tables like collapsed sunsets, and paper patterns fluttered beneath the table fans.

All of you—every woman in the room—were beautifully Black.

Proudly so, too.

Hair wrapped in bright scarves, sleeves rolled high, and voices easy and loud like summer.

These were women who carried their communities on their backs and still showed up with bangles on their wrists and wit on their tongues.

“I heard they got to swingin’ just before noon,” said Nadine, a tall woman with marigold nails and a laugh like an engine backfire, “Right in front of that record store on 8th.”

“Lord, that’s the sixth time this month,” said Miss Thelma, the oldest, her glasses sliding down her nose as she stitched a cuff with sharp precision, “They gon’ tear the whole street down one day.”

Daphne, perched on a stool beside a pile of pressed shirts, grinned as she fed a blue silk tie through her machine, “Y’all should’ve seen Alonzo come home last night. Lip all busted like he tried kissin’ a brick wall.”

Laughter erupted.

“Better hope it wasn’t the brick wall kissin’ back,” someone threw in.

Daphne fanned herself theatrically.

“Mm. I don’t mind a little blood if he’s limpin’ home to me.”

She batted her lashes, drawing another round of chuckles from the circle of women.

“Just means I get to kiss it better.”

In the corner, hunched over a satin evening gown you'd been altering since morning, you let out a low groan.

“I just wish he’d quit fightin’ in the first place,” you muttered, brushing a loose curl behind your ear.

Daphne looked over at you with a knowing brow.

“It’s in his nature, baby. Like a boxer, y’know?”

“Then maybe if his brains weren’t so knocked around all the time…” you muttered dryly without looking up, “he’d find a new nature.”

That sent them.

Laughter, loud and long, bounced off the tiled walls as a few of the younger girls clutched their sides.

Even Thelma chuckled behind her glasses.

Daphne let her laugh linger, wagging her head at you, “Smart mouth. Y’know there’s a dance happenin’ tonight…”

You didn’t look up, still threading a ribbon through a buttonhole.

Daphne continued, nonchalant, “Lonzo’s thinkin’ maybe you could go with Isaiah.”

That got your attention.

You slowly looked up from your sewing and turned your head with exaggerated disbelief.

“Again with Isaiah?” you said, slumping back in your chair like you'd just been handed a sentence, “You’d think he’s tryin’ to set up an arranged marriage.”

More chuckles circled the room as Daphne rolled her eyes, playful.

“Isaiah’s a nice boy,” she insisted. “Got a good job, don’t talk too much, always brings his mama flowers…”

“Exactly,” you interrupted with a crooked smirk. “A boy.”

The laughter came in waves again, especially when you stood suddenly, grabbing a feathered boa from a nearby rack and flinging it over your shoulders with a flair that was all drama and jazz.

You struck a pose, lips pursed and hips cocked.

“I need a man,” you declared, one hand lifted like you were toasting the sky. “One who talks with his chest, not his nose.”

Roars of laughter.

Daphne pinched the bridge of her nose, “Lord, help us.”

You shimmied in the boa, eyes gleaming with mischief, “I think I deserve it. I’m grown, after all.”

“Mm-hmm,” Daphne said, threading her needle with slow focus. “Girl, what do you know about a man?”

“I know plenty,” you shot back, matter-of-factly.

Daphne didn’t look up.

Just smirked, soft and sly, as she pulled the thread through her hem.

“Sure you do.”

The room was still bubbling with laughter when the foreman’s voice called out from the front of the store, muffled through the swinging doors.

“Ladies! Break’s in five!”

Just like that, the atmosphere eased into motion again—scarves readjusted, water cups refilled, machines revved up.

But a few women, including Daphne, were still smiling to themselves.

You settled back in your seat, but there was a flicker of something behind your eyes now.

Restless.

Like an itch under the skin or a half-remembered dream.

Something you couldn’t quite name.

But it would come for you.

Sooner than you'd ever expect.

.

.

.

The mirror in your modest Harlem apartment glinted softly in the late evening light, streaks of gold slipping through the open window like gentle fingers.

The room smelled faintly of pomade, warm pressed powder, and the sweet hint of cherry lipstick.

You sat on the edge of the vanity stool, your chin tilted up obediently as Daphne leaned over your shoulder, carefully outlining your lips with a practiced hand.

"Almost there," Daphne muttered, narrowing her eyes as she evened out one side. "Keep still, girl, or you're gonna end up lookin' like a clown."

"Maybe I wouldn’t mind," you teased, smiling beneath the gentle tug of the lipstick. "Least then nobody’d try and marry me off."

Daphne laughed just as the front door creaked open.

“There's my girls,” came Alonzo’s voice—smooth, deep, and with that always-warm smirk stitched into it.

You barely had time to turn before he stepped in and pressed a quick, brotherly kiss to your forehead.

But Daphne was his next destination.

He caught her by the waist like he’d done it a thousand times before—because he had—and pulled her into a long, slow kiss.

She hummed against his mouth, curling into him with a smile that only widened when she pulled back.

You rolled your eyes, already rising from your seat.

“If you two could cut the canoodling, we could get there on time,” you called as you grabbed your small beaded purse.

Alonzo chuckled.

“What’s the rush?” he asked, straightening his tie. “My little sister excited to see Isaiah?”

Daphne winced behind him like she'd heard a bad note.

You offered no reply, pushing past him to grab your coat from the hook near the door.

“I’m just sayin’,” he added with a playful shrug as the three of you left the apartment, locking the door behind.

The stairwell echoed beneath your footsteps as you made your way down.

“He’s a nice guy. Got a good job.”

“I fail to remember when I asked for a nice guy,” you answered breezily, descending a few steps ahead.

Alonzo’s brows tightened at that, the teasing slipping off his face.

“You don’t have to ask,” he said firmly, following your stride. “It’s what you’re gonna get.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

You looked over your shoulder, your smirk wicked, your voice lilting.

“Says you and that’s supposed to scare me?”

“Yes. It is,” he replied sharply, tone clipped. "Y'know, one day that mouth's gonna get you in trouble."

You rolled your eyes, pulling your coat tighter.

“And when that day comes, I’m sure you’ll be right there to rub it in my face.”

“You’re damn right,” he muttered.

“Give him a chance, (y/n),” Daphne offered gently, looping her arm through her boyfriend’s. “You never know…”

You exhaled, but didn’t answer.

The sidewalk shone with a faint glimmer from the streetlamps overhead, puddles reflecting red and yellow neon from a nearby diner.

As you rounded the corner, the school loomed ahead, its windows lit bright and flickering with movement.

The sound of music pulsed faintly through the brick walls—saxophone, drums, and the layered rhythm of fast footsteps.

Outside the school entrance, a swarm of boys waited.

The Saints.

All dressed up in pressed shirts, suspenders, clean shoes.

A few had their arms slung around their girlfriends.

They straightened up when they saw Alonzo approach.

“Aye, Zo!” one of them called, slapping him on the back.

The rest chorused hellos.

Inside the building, the tension already crackled—the Rogues were here, too.

Everyone knew it.

The walls vibrated with it, though the music kept up its friendly facade.

Alonzo disappeared into the crowd with Daphne on his arm, leaving you trailing slightly behind—just close enough to be polite, far enough to show you didn’t care.

Not really.

“There he is,” Alonzo grinned, spotting Isaiah and patting his shoulder. “Play nice, now.”

Isaiah stood with his hands stuffed in his pockets, dark skin flushed with either heat or nerves—maybe both.

He offered you a quick smile, then… nothing.

You waited.

“Hi,” you said at last, trying.

“Hi,” he said back, voice barely over the music.

Beat.

“You look nice,” you offered. “Is that a new tie?”

“Uh. My mom got it.”

Another beat.

You looked at the floor.

“I think I’m gonna go dance,” you said with a pleasant-enough smile, already moving before he could say anything.

The dancefloor was a writhing, pulsing thing. Bodies spinning, feet stomping, laughter rising high above the swinging trumpets and saxophones.

A girl in a red dress twirled so fast her skirt flared like a flower.

Another boy flipped backward, his partner clapping with delight.

You eased into the current like a leaf dropped into a stream.

It pulled you in, and you let it.

A step here.

A laugh there.

The weight of expectation loosened.

Your curls bounced as you spun with a stranger, and your mouth split into a grin.

It was freedom.

It was color and light and the kind of joy you didn’t have to earn.

You closed your eyes for a second as the music lifted.

And then—

You felt it.

Like heat against your neck.

Like something turning over in your chest.

You opened your eyes.

Across the gym, across the dancing crowd, across the lines drawn between Saints and Rogues, stood a man you did not know.

Still.

Tension in his jaw, softness in his eyes.

Remmick.

Only… you didn’t know that name.

Not yet.

He was dressed sharp, but not loud.

Black jacket, open collar, one hand tucked into his pocket.

He wasn't dancing.

Wasn't even trying to blend.

He just stood there, like he didn’t need to move to be noticed.

And he was staring at you.

Not like he recognized you—though maybe he did.

Not like you were a stranger—though maybe you were.

But like something in him had tilted.

Like he saw a ghost.

Or maybe a dream.

Something about his eyes made your heart stutter.

Not race.

Stutter.

Because he didn’t look away.

Because you didn’t want him to.

The music faded around the edges.

The dancers blurred.

The Saints and the Rogues, the banners, the lights, the brick and the sweat and the smell of punch and cologne—they all dissolved.

It was just the two of you.

Your lips parted softly.

A flicker of something ancient stirred beneath your skin.

The ghost of something unremembered.

Long lost.

Long buried.

And yet.

You stared back.

As if drawn by a force too old to name.

As if you'd been waiting.

As if he had, too.

Under the gentle spell of slow music and sweat-slick summer air, the dance floor pulsed with motion and laughter—boys twirling girls in chiffon skirts, girls flipping their curls back and squealing with delight.

But on the far side of the gymnasium, away from the punch bowls and glossy banners, two souls moved to an entirely different rhythm.

Unseen by anyone too tangled up in the party’s frenzy, you and the man walked—not hurried, not deliberate, but guided by something you couldn't name.

Each step mirrored the other’s, like two ends of a magnet drawn together by a long, quiet history.

The bleachers loomed, half-shadowed, drawing you in like a stage curtain parting for a scene only the stars above would witness.

You both entered from opposite ends—Remmick on one side, you on the other—and as the music softened into a swaying doo-wop number, you began to circle one another.

Your hips swayed as you moved, slow and smooth, like molasses.

A teasing smile ghosted your lips.

You didn’t speak—didn’t need to.

Your eyes said enough.

Remmick watched you with a glimmer in his gaze, his heart pounding not from nerves, but from a recognition so deep it felt ancestral.

He waited until you stopped in front of him, then returned the game.

With a grin tugging at one side of his mouth, he circled you now—equally silent, equally deliberate.

Your body remained still, but your eyes followed him, dark and knowing.

Then—tenderly, instinctively—yours hands met, and you began to sway.

You slow-danced without a single word, as if you'd done it a thousand times before.

Your hand in his.

His hand on the small of your back.

Breath falling in sync.

The rhythm of the music, the closeness of your bodies, the electricity that passed between your skin—none of it felt new.

Then, without warning, Remmick spun you gently, pulling you back into him until your body brushed against his chest and your fingers entwined once more.

Your breath caught, laughter hidden in the corners of your mouth.

“S’funny…” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “I wasn’t plannin’ on showin’ up here tonight.”

You tilted your head, amused, “You don’t like dancin’?”

“No,” he stammered, eyes drinking you in like he hadn’t seen you in a lifetime. “I mean… yeah. I love to dance... love it even more dancin’ with you.”

You smiled at that, brows lifting with playful suspicion, “You’re white.”

Remmick laughed quietly, leaning back against the metal bar of the bleacher, shadows striping across his face, “You just figurin’ that out?”

“Well,” you shrugged, smoothing a hand down your dress, “the way you dance, I wasn’t all too sure.”

He chuckled again, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes, “Is that alright? …That I am?”

There was a pause.

Not because you hesitated out of fear—but out of something deeper.

Something warm.

Something ancient and inexplicable.

You stepped closer, your voice softening into velvet.

“I don’t know yet…” you murmured, “It's my first time seein’ you… So, you tell me... is it okay?”

Remmick leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek as his voice dipped even lower, teasing and magnetic.

“Not much I can do about it—”

“(y/n)! (y/n)!” Daphne’s voice cut sharply through the spell, bouncing off the gym walls like a breaking bottle.

“Shit,” you hissed, stepping back, looking over toward the bleacher’s opening.

Panic and something else—regret, maybe—flashed in your eyes.

Remmick didn’t miss a beat.

He reached for your hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed your knuckles, slow and featherlight.

His gaze didn’t drop once.

“I’ll see you…” he said, voice trailing, like he needed you to say it out loud.

Like he needed to hear it from your mouth, just to believe it.

You smiled, your name catching in your throat before slipping free, “(y/n).”

He repeated it slowly, softly, “(y/n)...”

Like a prayer he hadn’t dared say in years.

Like something sacred.

And then he turned, slipping out the opposite side of the bleachers, just as Daphne came hurrying in from the other end.

“Where the hell you been?” Daphne demanded, worry hidden under a huff of frustration.

“I needed some air,” you replied casually, smoothing your skirt like nothing had happened at all.

“Yeah, well, it’s 'bout time you came back. Your brother nearly had a heart attack, y’know, with all these Rogues runnin’ around. Thought somethin’ bad happened.”

“Sorry,” you offered with a smirk, glancing sideways as if to keep the moment hidden under your tongue.

But out of the corner of your eye, you caught him just before the gym doors swung open.

He turned back briefly, flashing you a wink that hit somewhere low in your stomach.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the Harlem night.

You turned back to Daphne, smile still playing at your lips.

But something stirred in your chest now.

Something old.

Something sweet.

Something dangerous.

And you hadn’t even gotten his name.

.

.

XII. Mississippi - 1932

The voices around you became muffled, distant—like they were trapped behind a thick pane of glass.

Though the others gathered in the center of the juke, deeply engaged in talk of sharpened stakes and garlic water, you sat alone near the far wall, cradling your arms over your chest, rocking slowly on the balls of your feet as if the movement might steady your mind.

Your eyes were fixed on nothing, but in your mind's eye, his face—the man's face—was all you could see.

Remmick.

He had lodged himself inside you like a thorn in your chest.

It hurt, the way it echoed.

As though your very soul had been scraped raw by it.

Why? you asked yourself.

He was just a man.

Just some strange man standing in a door frame.

But something about him pulled at you like gravity, made your ribs ache like they’d been hollowed out for his memory to live in.

And worse—none of it made sense.

Your thoughts felt too big for your skull, too tangled to grasp.

You could feel the hum in your chest again, the way your stomach flipped at the memory of his crooked smile.

He had looked at you like he knew you.

Not in a way that made your skin crawl, but in a way that made your heart squeeze.

And that was the part that frightened you the most.

A lull fell again.

Your eyes drifted to the table where Annie and Smoke were talking intensely, the man reverently clutching her face in his strong hands.

Garlic water.

Oak stakes.

They were preparing for war.

And here you were, thinking about a man you didn’t even know.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

With a soft inhale, you stood and backed into the shadows, waiting for a moment when all eyes were occupied.

When it came, you slipped toward the bar and ducked behind it.

Your eyes scanned the space quickly until they landed on the oil lamp hanging on the wall and the gleam of a loaded pistol tucked beneath a crate.

You grabbed them both, heart racing, your mind chanting you’re crazy, you’re crazy, even as your feet carried you toward the door.

The wood creaked softly as you pushed through it into the night.

The woods stood tall and wide before you, black as pitch and full of whispering trees.

Twisted branches looked like the fingers of the dead, reaching down from above.

The chill in the air nipped at your arms, but you pressed forward anyway, lantern swaying in your grip, its light carving a narrow halo in the gloom.

Your thoughts felt louder out here.

You could hear your breath, the blood in your ears.

Every heartbeat seemed to echo with his name.

Remmick.

You didn’t know what you were hoping for.

Answers?

Closure?

A confession of some shared dream?

You didn’t know.

Only that you had to know why your heart beat like this for someone you had never met.

Or had you?

Suddenly, a twig snapped behind.

You whirled around.

And there he was.

Remmick stepped forward from the tree line, his frame limned in silver moonlight, hands casually tucked in the pockets of his pants.

That crooked smile was already in place, charming and infuriating and familiar in the most maddening way.

“Hello, darlin’,” he said, voice low, warm, too intimate.

You heart dropped into your stomach.

Instinct overtook emotion—you yanked the pistol up, aiming it square at his face.

He froze, hands lifting slowly, though he didn’t look surprised, “Whoa, there, baby, it’s me.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.

Your voice trembled.

“I don’t even know you.”

That, he hadn’t been prepared for.

He blinked once, twice.

The smile faltered.

“’What're you talkin' 'bout? 'Course you know. It’s me. Remmi. Remember?”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” you said gently but firmly, like the weight of his heartbreak was making you guilty for saying it.

His throat bobbed. “You don’t remember anythin’? The stone? Eíre? …My father?”

You shook your head again, more hesitant this time.

Something about the way he said Eíre pulled at your gut.

“No. I—I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Remmick’s eyes turned glassy with disbelief.

He looked down and away for a moment, jaw clenching.

“I’ve looked all over for ya, darlin',” he murmured, voice thick. “Kept every piece o' ya alive in my memory. Your laugh. Your walk. That damn crinkle in your nose. And now you’re here and you… you don’t remember a damn thing.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

You just stared.

He took a step forward.

“C’mon, darlin’, it’s me. I sound different now, I know. I learned up while you were away. But can talk t’ye like this... makes ye feel bett—”

“Not another step,” you warned, raising the gun again. “I will shoot you dead.”

“Baby, please—”

“I said stop callin’ me that!”

“…(y/n),” he said softly.

Your spine straightened like a wire.

“…How do you know my name?” you demanded.

“Because I know you,” he said, taking another careful step. “S’what I’ve been tryna tell ya.”

“Stop comin’ over here!” you barked, retreating a few steps. “I mean it!”

But Remmick only moved forward, step by slow step, voice lowering to something between pleading and worshipful.

“I would never hurt you. Never. You know that. Just pause a moment, please. I’ll explain it all—”

Bang.

The shot rang out in the woods, deafening.

Your aim was true—the bullet struck him clean in the mouth.

His head jerked back sharply from the impact, hair whipping as the force drove him half a step back.

Your eyes were wide with horror, your chest rising and falling in panicked breaths—until you realized—

No blood.

No collapse.

Just Remmick, slowly lifting his head again… and grinning.

The bullet was lodged between his teeth.

Your stomach dropped through the forest floor.

With a soft ptoo, he spit it off to the side like a cherry pit, hands still raised, expression still maddeningly gentle.

“I see time hasn’t taken your aim,” he chuckled softly.

“What are you?” you whispered, voice full of shaken awe.

He didn’t answer.

In a flash of inhuman speed, he surged forward—an impossible blur of motion—before you could even lift the pistol again.

His arms were around you, pulling you tight against his chest, one hand curled firmly against your lower back, the other buried in your hair as he leaned close.

You gasped, frozen in his grasp, the lamp falling from your grip and shattering against the ground.

The scent of him filled your nose—like cedar, smoke, and something faintly sweet.

Your knees nearly gave way from the weight of it.

He leaned his forehead gently against yours, his voice low and full of ache.

“I’m yours.”

The woods suddenly went quiet—eerily so, as though even the trees themselves were listening.

The faint hum of the night creatures had long since faded into silence, swallowed by something older, heavier, more sacred.

The wind had stilled around you, letting the moment hang suspended like the breath between heartbeats.

Remmick cupped your cheek gently, the rough calluses of his hand ghosting over your smooth skin with infinite care.

His thumb stroked just under your eye, a gesture that trembled with reverence.

There you were, just as you had been—your face unmarred by time, untouched by grief or the years that had carved themselves so cruelly into him.

He drank you in like a starving man, eyes moving across the curve of your nose, the lashes that kissed your cheek, the soft parting of your lips.

You didn’t fight him.

Instead, you let yourself melt into the familiar shelter of his arms, your heart thudding against his chest as though it had found its rhythm again after years of silence.

You didn’t know why, couldn’t explain how, but you felt safe.

More than that—you felt home.

Remmick exhaled slowly, voice low and tender, like smoke curling from a hearth, “Let me try somethin’... please…”

His tone was a plea wrapped in velvet.

Something inside you nodded before you could, some part of you that had long waited for this without ever knowing it.

You lifted your face, your breath trembling.

After a quiet pause, she nodded once.

His hand shifted—one callused palm sliding from your cheek to cradle your chin, thumb resting softly under you jaw.

His face came closer, eyes locked on yours, searching for resistance and finding none.

He kissed you.

And the world came rushing back.

Like floodwaters breaking through a dam, the memories slammed into you all at once.

1504.

The farm.

The wild green fields.

The stone glowing like fire under moonlight.

Your hands in his.

Laughter.

Kisses.

The witch’s help.

Your scream before the water swallowed you whole.

You gasped, the air ripping from your lungs as if you'd just broken the surface after drowning.

Your hands flew to his face, cupping his cheeks with aching familiarity, the pads of your fingers trembling as they mapped out what they already knew.

“Remmi?” you whispered, voice broken with disbelief and wonder.

Your eyes were wide and gleaming.

His lips curled into a smile, hope cracking through his voice, “A ghrá…?”

The nickname shattered you.

The sob that tore from your chest was bright with joy.

You squealed, throwing your arms around his neck so tightly you nearly knocked him off his feet.

He laughed, that same laugh you had clung to lifetimes ago, catching you and kissing you back with the urgency of someone who’d been waiting centuries for permission.

You kissed him once, twice, again, pressing your face to his as though afraid he’d vanish if you looked away.

You rambled in delighted bursts, barely able to get the words out:

“Oh my God, I thought I was goin’ crazy—I knew I knew you, but I didn’t—your voice! What’s with the accent? Ya sound like a whole different man! And how did you even find me? How the hell did you make it all the way to Mississippi?!”

He chuckled, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours in a warm cloud.

He pressed another soft kiss to your lips before pulling away just enough to murmur, “It’s a long story, darlin’. One best saved for a better hour.”

You nodded quickly, pulling him into a tight hug, pressing your cheek to his shoulder.

You wanted to crawl inside him, stay wrapped in his arms forever, “I love you, Remmick.”

He shuddered.

Those words. T

hose four simple words had once been whispered to him under a bright moon.

They had been taken from him too soon, only to haunt his every waking thought for over four centuries.

To hear them again from the same mouth, the same soul—he could’ve wept.

He didn’t have the chance.

A sickening sound pierced the quiet.

You froze, eyes going wide as a blossom of red bloomed across his shirt.

But it wasn’t just him.

The stake had gone clean through both of you.

It had missed Remmick’s heart by sheer miracle, puncturing through his lung and forcing a pained grunt from his chest.

His eyes shot wide, though he could still feel—barely—that his heart continued to beat.

But it was you that wasn't so lucky.

Your body jerked sharply in his arms, the breath hitching in your throat.

A harsh gasp escaped your lips as your fingers clawed instinctively at his shirt, eyes blown wide in disbelief.

Fear rattled Remmick to the bone.

“Darlin’...?” he asked, tone shaky, cupping your cheek.

The sticky warmth of your blood seeped faster now, spreading into his shirt, hot and unwelcome.

Then the stake was yanked back out.

The force sent you lurching forward with a sharp, jarring movement—then you collapsed, boneless in his arms.

He dropped with you.

“(Y/N)!” he cried out, voice breaking as he pressed his hands hard against your middle, trying to stanch the wound. “Donchu... donchu do this to me. I jus’ gotchu back.”

You gasped against his neck, barely holding onto consciousness, your bloodied fingers wrapping tightly around his hand.

Your strength was already leaving you, but somehow, you still managed to muster a small, trembling smile.

Your hand rose to cup his face, leaving a smear of red across his cheek.

“I... love you... Remmi.”

“I love you, too, a ghrá. Love you so damn much.”

His voice cracked under the weight of it, the words soaking in despair.

But you were already fading—eyes dulling, breath growing shallow, until your body went still in his arms.

Silence fell like a hammer.

For a moment, Remmick didn’t move.

He just held you there, rocking slightly, the glow in his eyes pulsing with unbearable grief.

Then... something in him snapped.

He turned, eyes burning crimson as they locked onto the straggler—the one who had hurled the stake, still frozen with terror.

Remmick rose to his feet with a slow, trembling rage.

“You stupid, motherfuckin' bastard...” he hissed, voice low and shaking with fury.

Then he lunged.

Fangs bared.

Hands twisted with claws.

The full force of his vampiric nature erupted as he pounced.

What happened next was swift, brutal, and unseen—but the man's scream was heard only once.

That lone man’s transgression was what caused the deaths of every single person in the juke joint that night.

Remmick had taken them all out—alone, blood-soaked, and utterly unmerciful—once Grace let him in.

.

.

XI. Mississippi - 1932

You sat at the edge of the makeshift bar, legs crossed under the hem of Grace’s loaned dress, your fingertips circling the rim of a half-drunk glass of corn liquor.

The scent was sweeter than you remembered, and the gentle warmth it spread through your chest felt far away—like someone else’s comfort, borrowed for the moment.

Annie had gone off to handle something or someone—she hadn’t said much—but you insisted you'd be alright, gently smiling despite the knot behind your ribs.

Now, left in a haze of instruments and sultry singing, you found yourself staring at nothing at all.

Or rather… at the place where he had been.

Remmick.

You didn’t even know him, not truly.

His face wasn’t one you could name or place.

But something inside you—something stubborn and aching—insisted it knew him.

Knew his warmth.

The croon of his voice.

The soft of his eyes.

It was like trying to recall the specifics of a dream just before it dissolved in the morning light.

A dream your soul clung to with white knuckles.

You pressed a hand softly against your chest.

Why did your heart hurt?

Grace, wiping a glass clean behind the bar, gave a small smirk and leaned in, the music rising to a high belt of Pale, Pale Moon.

“C’mon, girl,” she said with a teasing lift of her brow. “A lil’ distraction would do ya some good. Half the men in here been circlin’ like hawks.”

You let out a quiet breath of a laugh, shaking your head, eyes still on the stage, “Normally I would… really… but somethin’s off tonight.”

“Mm,” Grace hummed. “Your spirit feelin’ it too, huh?”

But before you could respond, a crack of violence ripped through the air.

Gunshots.

The music screeched to a halt.

Conversation died mid-sentence.

A beer bottle slipped from someone’s hand behind you and shattered on the floor.

The collective breath of the room sucked inward like the mouth of a cave about to scream.

You shot to your feet, eyes wide and frantic.

“Annie!” you called, already moving, weaving through the stunned bodies and toward the front room.

Your heels echoed sharply against the old floorboards, matching the thrum of your heart.

But just as she neared the door—

Mary came barreling through it.

Blood soaked her front, smeared across her chin and trailing from the corner of her mouth like a child who had gorged herself on jam.

But there was nothing innocent in those glowing yellow eyes.

She moved like something ancient—like sin given skin.

“I’ll be back soon, Slim!” she cackled, voice high and feral as she ran past the old man. “Gon’ have some real fun tonight!”

And then she was gone, wild and beautiful and horrifying as she disappeared into the thick of night.

You stumbled back, almost falling before a hand steadied you.

You turned and found Delta Slim, mouth agape, stool overturned at his feet.

Your eyes met—his wide and hard with disbelief, yours full of terrified confusion—and in that breathless moment, neither of you said a word.

But you both ran.

Back toward the room, until you reached the door where it happened.

Inside, the air was thick with blood and disbelief.

Smoke was on the floor, sitting, arms curled protectively around a body that wasn’t moving.

Stack.

His twin.

His mirror.

His brother.

Blood—dark and gushing—pooled beneath him, soaking through the floorboards.

A thick tear in his neck gaped wide like something monstrous had bitten into him and ripped.

You gasped, both hands slapping over your mouth.

You had grown up hearing stories about the Smokestack twins—how nobody could take one down, much less one of them alone.

It didn’t feel real.

Couldn’t be real.

But Stack’s stillness said otherwise.

Sammie was there too, trembling like a leaf, his wide eyes fixed on nothing.

Annie stood beside him, motionless, her hand on his shoulder as if to anchor him to the world.

Though, it was Annie who finally moved, snapping back into her own body as she turned sharply to Delta.

“Keep the crowd out,” she ordered, voice clipped and trembling. “Don’t let nobody else back here.”

Delta nodded once and turned, slipping through the door, his shoulders already pushing through the onlookers.

You stepped inside, swallowing your nausea.

Your hands were shaking.

Annie turned back to Sammie then, crouching beside him.

"Did she say anything?” she asked, and the rawness in her voice scraped at the silence.

Sammie hesitated, lips quivering.

He lowered his head, the blood on his shirt stark against the brown of his skin.

“She said…” his voice cracked. “We gon’ kill you all.”

Annie’s brows pulled together.

“We?” she echoed. "She said we?"

Something in her voice faltered.

Cracked.

And you felt it too—that shift in the air.

Like something bigger was stirring, something ancient and waiting.

Something that had its claws sunk into the dark of the night and was only just now starting to grin.

.

.

.

The low hum of chaos had barely quieted, the smell of blood still fresh and sharp in the air.

A ghostly silence hovered over the juke like a fog rolling in from the Delta, thick and pressing.

Bo and Grace had ushered the remaining patrons out, murmuring rushed reassurances through trembling lips.

Then, Bo had gone to bring his car around front, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles ticked in his face.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath hesitant feet.

Nobody dared speak above a whisper.

Smoke leaned against the wall, blood soaked into his once-crisp shirt, his eyes hollow with disbelief.

Annie stood near him, arms crossed, jaw locked, every bit the pillar she had to be.

Sammie sat hunched on a bench, hands fidgeting with his collar, while you hovered close by, heart still hammering in your chest.

None of it felt real.

Then, from outside the juke’s front door, came the heavy clomp of boots over gravel.

“Slim? Smoke?” came a familiar voice—loose, unbothered, cheerful in a way that scraped against the grief still bleeding in the room.

And there he stood: Cornbread.

Alive.

Or at least, wearing the shape of being alive.

Delta Slim shot up like a lit fuse, arm thrown out accusingly, “Where the hell you been at, man?!”

Cornbread scratched his head and leaned lazily against the frame, stopping just shy of crossing the threshold.

“Man, I went to take a piss, but it turned out I had to take a shit too.”

He chuckled, voice light, but there was something in his smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

They gleamed faintly yellow in the low light.

Smoke straightened up, slow and stiff.

His shirt was soaked down to his belt in Stack’s blood.

“God-dog! What happened?!” Cornbread asked.

“Stack’s dead,” Smoke said flatly.

Cornbread blinked.

“What?” his brows rose with wide-eyed surprise. “How the hell that happen?”

Nobody answered.

Cornbread shook his head, sorrow slinking over his face like an old hat he knew how to wear.

“Man… damn. Damn, man. Lemme come in, help y’all out.”

But Smoke didn’t move.

He didn’t step aside.

Annie tilted her head, suspicion sharp as a fishhook.

“Why you need him to do that?” she asked. “You big and strong enough to push past us.”

Cornbread grinned, showing too many teeth, “Now that wouldn't be too polite, now would it, Miss Annie?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“That ain’t never stopped you before. You been in an’ outta this juke all night, ain’t thought twice ’bout knockin’ then," Smoke chimed.

Cornbread waved a hand, “Ain’t we got bigger things to worry about than her Louisiana-bayou bullshit?”

“C'mon, admit to it,” Annie said, stepping forward, tone commanding.

“Admit to what?”

“That you dead,” she said simply. “That one of them white folk out there kill you, and you a haint now.”

A scoff burst out of Cornbread’s throat like a shotgun crack, “Y'all listenin' to this?”

Then, his eyes slid over to you, and his tone softened with something almost charming.

“’Sides… I think it’s about time I get Miss (l/n) home. Her house ain’t far. Just up the road from mine.”

You startled, pointing to yourself in confusion, “Me?”

“You ain’t takin’ her nowhere,” Annie said firmly, stepping in front of you.

Cornbread’s friendly smile didn’t falter, but the shine in his eyes sharpened.

“Aight then,” he said, holding out a hand just inside the doorway. “I at least get my pay?”

Your eyes flicked down to the hand.

He was holding it close to his chest.

Too close.

Delta Slim threw his hands up, “So now you wanna get paid for what you ain’t did?!"

"Shut up, you old drunk."

"You shut the fuck up. Don’t give him nothin’, Smoke!”

But Smoke, eyes narrowing, pulled a few bills from his pocket.

His fingers moved slow, as though unsure, testing.

He stretched his hand toward Cornbread, just barely crossing the threshold.

Quicker than anyone could blink, Cornbread lunged.

His hand clamped down on Smoke’s wrist like an iron trap, dragging it forward.

His teeth bared—sharp, jagged, glinting—and his eyes flared bright yellow as his mouth opened wide to bite.

A gunshot tore through the air.

Smoke’s pistol barked once, point-blank into the side of Cornbread’s face.

Blood and bone sprayed, and Cornbread recoiled, releasing Smoke with a roar of rage.

But even with a hole clean through his cheek, Cornbread didn’t falter.

Didn’t die.

Rising from the ground, he slowly straightened up, the fatal wound laying gushing and pretty for all to see.

Pearline screamed.

Sammie cursed and stumbled backward.

You whimpered, eyes wide with terror.

Quickly, Grace, Annie, and Delta yanked Smoke back inside, Annie throwing on the deadbolt once he was secure.

Silence.

Only the sound of panicked breathing and the rapid beat of frightened hearts.

Then—

Knock. Knock.

It came from behind.

Pearline froze.

“Is someone… in there?” she whispered, staring at the closed front room door.

The one you'd left Stack’s body behind.

You turned to Sammie, dread rising like bile.

Neither of you said it.

Suddenly, a knife stabbed through the door’s wood, its blade glinting inches from your face.

You screamed and leapt back.

“Stack?” Smoke called out, approaching carefully.

A long pause.

Then a low voice, raspy and dry, answered, “Nah, nigga. It’s Jim Crow.”

Nobody moved.

“C’mon now,” Stack’s voice continued. “Lemme out, Smoke. It’s cold in here.”

“You was dead,” Annie said, almost to herself. “I checked your pulse...”

“You was wrong,” he hissed. “Now open the goddamn door!”

"Smoke, that ain't your brother..."

Stack began pounding on it.

The wood cracked with every blow, splinters flying as if the hinges themselves might rip free.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“LET ME OUT, SMOKE!” the voice bellowed.

With one final slam, the door splintered open, and the weight of it collapsed on Sammie, pinning him to the ground.

Stack stood in the doorway, blood still caked to his throat and chest.

But he was standing.

Breathing.

Eyes glowing in the dim light.

His teeth looked like razors.

The room screamed.

Pearline pressed against the wall.

You backed into the far corner, heart hammering as you searched for anything to defend yourself with.

Stack hissed and began to move—

Suddenly, Annie grabbed a large glass jar, hurling the contents at his skin—garlic water, pungent and holy.

Steam rose from his body as he howled in pain, clutching his burning flesh.

The scent was unbearable—burned meat and rot and sulfur.

With a screech, he turned and bolted out the door, disappearing into the night like a shadow fleeing the dawn.

Silence, again.

This time thicker.

Heavier.

Everyone frozen.

You stood shaking, arms wrapped tight around yourself, stomach twisting.

This was gonna be a looong night.

.

.

X. Mississippi - 1932

“What on earth am I wearin’?” you whispered aloud, hands trembling as they ran over the tattered skirt and fraying seams of the olden dress clinging to your skin.

The fabric was damp with river water, heavy and foreign, your shoulders exposed where the sleeve had been torn.

Your boots—no, not your boots, someone else’s boots—were caked in dark mud.

You turned your hands over and stared at the raw cuts in your palms.

Your heart was thudding violently, faster and faster, panic tightening its grip with every passing second.

You didn’t remember falling.

You didn’t remember any of this.

No cottage.

No waterfall.

No Ireland.

No Remmick.

All you could summon was the memory of walking home from Annie’s house—though, unbeknownst to you, only a single night had passed since then, compared to your four months spent in 1504.

The moon had been full.

The roads quiet.

You'd been humming, maybe, or laughing at something Annie had said.

Then—nothing.

Not even a blur.

Just a black void, as though your mind had folded in on itself.

Your breath fogged the air.

Your limbs were cold.

Your chest heaved as she spun, looking around for anything familiar—and then your ears caught it.

Low at first.

A slow, aching hum.

A piano.

A guitar.

Laughter.

The rolling thunder of feet on wood.

Music.

A juke joint.

You turned toward the sound like a lifeline and began to run.

Branches clawed at your skirt as you broke through the tree line, your lungs screaming for air, the earth slick beneath your heels.

With each step, the music grew louder—weeping strings, and the deep, buttery croon of a man’s voice drifting through the night like honeyed smoke.

And then, there it was.

The warm, glowing beacon.

Lights flickered from the windows and porch.

Voices rang out in joy and song.

It was alive.

Familiar.

Home.

You stumbled up toward the front steps, chest rising and falling in desperate, disbelieving gasps.

And there, just outside the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, was a man you recognized.

“Cornbread?” your voice cracked.

He straightened immediately.

His eyes went wide, his jaw slack.

“Lil’ (n/n)?” he breathed, stepping forward. “Lord have mercy, what the hell happened to you?”

You blinked up at him, brow furrowed, mouth dry.

“I… I don’t know,” you whispered. “I c-can’t remember…”

Cornbread's expression hardened with concern.

"You shakin’,” he murmured, reaching out to steady you with a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Go on in there. Find Miss Annie.”

Numbly, you nodded, “Thank you."

He stepped aside to allow you in, and warmth spilled out like summer sunlight.

The music hit you like a wave—piano keys dancing, feet stomping in time.

Bodies were twisting and swaying on the wooden floor, the scent of sweat, whiskey, and fried catfish thick in the air.

It was beautiful and dizzying, a tornado of color and movement that felt both like salvation and sensory overload.

Your eyes darted through the crowd—and then landed on the bar.

There.

Sitting with a glass in her hand, Annie was laughing at something Grace had said beside her, but when her gaze caught sight of the doorway and the figure standing in it, her expression dropped.

“(y/n)!” Annie shot up so fast her chair nearly toppled. “Oh, my God! What happened to ya?!”

Tears immediately welled in your eyes.

Your bottom lip trembled.

The fear, the confusion, the not knowing surged up and broke the dam wide open.

You sniffled, shoulders curling in, clutching the shredded edge of your skirt like a lifeline.

Annie was at your side in seconds, gathering you in tight.

“Oh, baby…” she whispered, rocking you gently, brushing damp hair from your face. “S'alright. You home now, you hear me? You right here wit' me.”

Grace came up behind, her brows drawn in concern, “I brought a spare dress. It’s in the back, still got the tags on.”

Annie gave a thankful nod, then turned to you and cupped your cheeks.

“C’mon, honey. Les’ getchu cleaned up.”

You nodded slowly, your mind still spinning, your feet barely carrying as Annie led you toward the back room.

The lights dimmed as you passed the door, voices muffled behind.

The music still played on, and somewhere deep in your heart, the melody tugged at something unplaceable.

A string strummed too tight.

A feeling.

A name.

Something just out of reach.

But when you closed your eyes, all you saw was a waterfall.

And a shadow in the moonlight.

But when you opened them again, you were just a girl in a juke joint in Clarksdale, Mississippi.

And you remembered nothing.

.

.

.

The back room smelled faintly of powder and perfume, wooden beams lined with dust and knotted oak, and a single dim bulb swinging softly from the low ceiling like a sleepy eye.

You sat on a rickety chair while Annie gently cleaned the cut on your cheek, murmuring a quiet, “Hold still now,” before taping the bandage over your skin.

You, now changed into a soft cotton dress—blue with yellow trimming, one of Grace’s spares—sat wringing your hands.

Your skin was clean but cold, and your eyes kept drifting to your reflection in the small, smudged mirror propped in the corner.

“I was just walkin’ home,” you said, voice trembling like the glass in a passing train. “I left yours just like normal... I was halfway home, and then—s'like I blinked.”

Annie’s hands paused for the smallest moment.

“Next thing I know,” you whispered, “M'face-down in the dirt... dress all tore up, shoes I don’t even recognize. That ain’t my dress, Annie. It ain’t even from here.”

Annie wanted to believe it was just shock.

Wanted to.

But her heart crawled up into her throat.

“Mm.”

She said nothing for a beat too long, then stood up and moved to a chipped cabinet in the corner.

She pulled out a clay bottle and a single glass.

“Here. It’ll ease ya nerves,” she said softly.

You nodded shakily and took it.

The corn liquor burned hot and mean, but you downed it in a single swallow like it was water, like you were hoping it’d erase everything you didn’t understand.

Annie sat down beside you but said nothing, letting the silence fill the space like molasses.

Just then, Sammie poked his head through the door, his brows already creased, “Annie...twins got a problem up front.”

Annie’s jaw clenched.

She placed a soft hand on your knee, “I’ll be right back. Donchu go nowhere, alright?”

You nodded.

Annie squeezed your hands, smiled with more effort than usual, then disappeared through the doorway with Sammie.

Left alone, you sat back and stared at your lap, the silence suddenly loud.

The distant music, muffled by thick walls, thumped against your bones.

Thoughts began to rise like swamp steam, hot and clinging.

Who am I forgetting? What am I forgetting?

You squeezed your eyes shut and clutched your temples, willing something—anything—to come back.

A name.

A face.

A feeling.

But there was nothing.

Just an ache in your chest and a buzzing in your ears.

Choked by the pressure, you stood.

You needed air.

You needed noise.

You moved back into the main room.

The juke joint was alive in that way only Southern nights could be—raw, jubilant, sweating music out its pores.

The piano wailed like a preacher in a fever, bodies swayed in rhythm, and laughter shot up like sparks from a fire.

But then you noticed it—an energy shift near the front.

A small crowd had gathered near the entrance.

Your eyes zeroed in on the Smokestack twins standing firm with their arms crossed.

Annie was there too, jaw tight.

Cornbread, Sammie, even Mary—they were all watching a trio that stood just beyond the threshold.

Two men and a woman.

You caught the end of a tune—Pick Poor Robin Clean, you thought—but Smoke cut them off sharply.

“This here a juke joint,” he said, tone final.

The shorter of the strangers, his hair a burnished brown copper under the overhead lights, raised his voice just a little.

“Soundin’ damn near perfect and you say we ain’t welcome?”

That voice.

It made something twist inside you.

“No,” Smoke said, firmly. “M’sayin’ you get down that road and get back into town. Plenty of white barrelhouses down there.”

You stepped fully into view.

“Is everythin’ alright?” you asked, brows knitting in concern.

Remmick turned.

His breath hitched.

His world stopped.

“A ghrá...” he whispered, the Gaeilge curling softly off his tongue like the most sacred prayer.

His eyes glistened, disbelieving and overflowing with something ancient and tender.

“Tar éis na mblianta seo ar fad...”

"After all these years..."

The space shrank.

The music faded into nothing.

All he could see was you.

Just as you had been that last day—radiant, golden from the sun and kissed by the wind.

His hands twitched at his sides, aching with the memory of holding you.

Smoke and Stack exchanged a look.

Mary’s fingers curled around Annie’s wrist.

They all felt the strange energy coil in the air.

You blinked, your heart thudding wildly in your chest.

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

You didn’t recognize his face.

You knew you didn’t.

And yet—there it was.

That ache.

That knowing.

It slammed into you like a ghost, crashing through your veins, rising up your throat like a sob that never came.

You didn’t know his name.

But you knew the shape of his soul.

Remmick stepped forward slightly, slow and reverent, as if nearing a miracle.

But then: click.

Smoke rested a deliberate hand on his pistol.

The look in his eye was a silent promise—not one more step.

“You don’t need to do that, sir,” Remmick said, voice low, almost regretful. “We’ll be on our way... but we’re gonna walk real slow. Just in case y’all change your mind.”

No one moved as the trio began to turn away, the other two watching quietly as Remmick kept his eyes on you—never breaking gaze.

Not even once.

There was so much said in the silence.

So much pain.

So much love.

You stood frozen, confused and hollowed out by the weight of something you couldn’t remember but felt all the same.

Before you could move, Annie had an arm around your shoulder, gently pulling you back into the noise of the joint.

“They give me the willies,” she murmured.

“Yeah, well,” Stack muttered behind a toothpick. “Crackers at nighttime’ll do that to ya.”

Still, even as you were ushered deeper into the warm light, your eyes lingered toward the door—toward the dark beyond it.

Toward the man with eyes full of memory.

And far outside, walking slow under the cloak of night, Remmick turned his head one last time.

His heart still beating—undead or not—with the echo of your name.

.

.

IX. Ireland - 1504

The air was heavy with the scent of moss and wildflowers, the distant chirp of crickets forming a lullaby beneath the dark canopy overhead.

The brook ran slow and steady nearby, glistening under a veil of moonlight, and the soft hush of trees swaying filled the world with quiet calm.

But for you… it had been anything but calm.

What began in the pond had spilled into the hours that followed like ink in water—unstoppable, blooming with intensity.

You remained in each other’s arms well into the night, wrapped in wordless confessions and breathless discovery.

Each moment was delicate, frenzied, unspoken—a tangle of limbs and longing, fire meeting fire.

You hadn't spoken much.

You hadn't needed to.

Not when each touch said more than any prayer or poem could.

Though, your journey had resumed under the soft hush of dawn.

Since that night, everything had shifted.

Where there was once playful tension, there was now open affection—fingers brushing without hesitation, small smiles given without needing to be earned.

You shared whispered jokes, lingered too long in passing, and when you shivered in the breeze, Remmick was always already at your side, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders with a cheeky glint in his eye.

He’d become more forward, in a quiet sort of way—confident where he once stood back, teasing with that sly, crooked smile that had begun to undo you all over again.

And you welcomed it.

You welcomed all of him.

Though, the two of you didn’t speak much of your return—to Clarksdale, to your time.

For now, it felt too distant.

Too unreal.

You let the thought of it fall behind, forgotten in favor of the road ahead and the comfort of being together in the now.

The setting sun threw warm light across the horizon, dyeing the clouds in gold.

Your horses walked side by side, your laughter carrying through the wind like song.

“I still can’t believe ya missed the rabbit twice,” you teased, nudging him with your knee. “An' after all that talk of being some ‘great hunter.’”

Remmick let out a mock-gasp, hand to chest.

“Ye scream scare it!”

“You were chasing it in the wrong direction!”

“Was catchin’ it—!” he shot back, then burst into laughter, tossing his head.

His hair caught the dying light like copper threads.

You laughed too, hard and carefree.

But in that lull of fading giggles, the conversation slowed.

Something shifted.

You rode in silence for a few paces before you asked, voice gentler, “You ever done that before?”

His brows pulled together, “Kill rabbit?”

“No,” you smirked, glancing over at him. “Y'know... That. The other night…”

Remmick’s face colored.

He looked ahead, then down at the reins in his hands.

A pause.

“No,” he admitted, low and honest. “Never.”

You were quiet for a beat, then nodded, “Me neither.”

He looked at you sharply, “True?”

You gave a soft, almost sheepish smile, “True.”

Another pause passed between—longer this time, heavier but not uncomfortable.

His gaze lingered on you, more tender now.

There was silence for a beat.

And then… another spark.

Hotter this time.

Weightier.

He looked at you, then—really looked—and you saw it in his eyes: that same hunger, that same reverence that had overtaken him by the water’s edge.

But before either of you could speak—

A dense column of smoke split the sky in the distance.

Black as pitch.

Rising far too high, too fast.

And it was coming from the direction of Remmick’s home.

His brow furrowed, “No…”

Then the realization hit him all at once.

“Athair!” he roared, his voice cracking with fear.

"Father!"

His heels dug into the sides of his horse and he shot forward, galloping full-speed toward the rising smoke.

You spurred your horse to follow, heart hammering.

And what you saw when you arrived stole the breath straight from your lungs.

The cottage was already swallowed in flames—roaring red and orange, spitting ash into the sky as the roof caved in with a thunderous crash.

Every wooden beam Remmick had grown beneath, every memory in that home, now reduced to cinders.

The animals were screaming—horses whinnying, chickens scattering, goats bleating in frantic circles.

Smoke clawed at the sky like a monster set loose.

“Athair!” Remmick shouted again, dismounting so fast he nearly tripped, sprinting toward the front of the house. “Athair, tá tú ann?!”

"Father! Father, are you there?!"

“Remmick!” you exclaimed, leaping from her own horse and grabbing his arm before he could charge inside. “Remmick, you’ll kill yourself!”

He looked at you then, wild-eyed, shaking, smoke curling around him.

“He in there—! He—!” His voice broke.

But before either of you could act further, a new sound split the crackle of fire—the firm thud of hooves and the low clang of armored boots behind them.

From around the side of the burning cottage came the clergymen.

Their stark white stallions gleamed, untouched by soot or ash.

The men atop them were adorned in ornate garb, pristine despite the inferno before them.

Crosses glinted against their chests.

Their expressions were cold.

Grim.

Unyielding.

No words were spoken.

But the air shifted—heavier now, darker.

A silent threat curled at the edges of the blaze.

Remmick turned slowly, shielding you with one arm.

The flames danced behind them, casting everything in red and shadow.

And in the stillness, a bitter truth took root:

This was no accident.

Behind them, the scorched wooden door of Remmick's family cottage hung off its hinges.

Something inside gave a final, dying crack and fell in a shower of sparks.

Remmick’s breath caught in his throat, “Athair…”

Then one of the clergymen looked up, eyes gleaming beneath his soot-darkened cowl.

“You!” he shouted. “You return just in time to witness your salvation, boy!”

They began their approach, all three on horseback.

“What ye done!?” Remmick demanded, furious.

“Saved your soul!” the man in front snarled.

His beard was stained with ash, his eyes wide with unholy zeal.

“You and your father housed a demon. The countrymen saw it with their own eyes, black as pitch and dripping witchcraft from its tongue!”

“She no demon!” Remmick barked, stepping forward. “Saw her fall! Wit' me own eyes!”

“Blasphemy!” cried another priest, clutching his wooden cross. “Do not be deceived! Satan can cloak himself in wonder! She’s ensnared you, son. You’ve fallen into her trap!”

“I not fall into anythin’!” Remmick shouted. “She done nothin’!”

“She is a test of your flesh,” sneered the one on horseback, circling around them. “Sent to seduce and devour.”

Your breath stilled.

Remmick turned just in time to see one of the clergyman reach out and grab you by the shoulder.

“NO!” he lunged forward, but it was too late.

You screamed as the man hoisted you up, rough hands yanking you out of your cloak.

The fabric tore clean down the middle, ripping away and exposing your bare arm and shoulder.

The torchlight flickered against your skin, your curls hanging over your face like ink.

“Behold!” the priest roared. “The harlot in her true form! Is this not a succubus sent to tempt the faithful?!”

You kicked against his hold, face twisted in fury.

“Fuck you!” you spat, hitting him square in the cheek with a mouthful of saliva.

The crowd gasped.

The priest’s eyes went wide—then burned with rage.

“You filthy devil,” he growled—and slashed your cheek with a holy blade, a thin, sharp dagger etched with crosses along the hilt.

You screamed.

Blood oozed down your face, warm and sticky against your skin.

Remmick roared, fury breaking like a dam.

He surged forward, but you acted faster.

With trembling fingers, you reached for the small knife he had gifted you, still hidden beneath the hem of your dress.

The priest raised the blade again—

—and you drove your knife right into his hand.

He howled in pain, dropping you as the blade plunged straight through the back of his palm.

You fell hard—but the moment your feet hit dirt, you went right to Remmick.

“Run!” he shouted. “Go—!”

But you were already at his side, “M’not leaving you!”

“GO!”

He shoved you behind him, snatching up a thick, gnarled branch, half-burned at one end but solid like a club.

Tears in your eyes, cheek bleeding, you hesitated—then turned and broke into a mad dash down the blackened field, dirt kicking beneath your heels.

Remmick swung the branch and caught the nearest priest in the chest, sending him tumbling off his horse with a gasp.

The third clergyman mounted quickly and gave chase.

“Witch!” he bellowed after you. “Witch, you will be cleansed in fire! You will kneel before the Lord and be struck down in his name!”

You ran harder, panic screaming through your body, the pounding hooves behind growing closer, closer, until—

A glint of silver.

A waterfall ahead.

You didn’t think.

You ducked into the rocks and leapt behind the falling sheet of water, landing hard in the shadowed alcove just behind it.

Cold mist soaked your skin instantly, your breath fogging.

You clamped a hand over your mouth.

The sound of hooves galloped past—then slowed.

The priest’s voice echoed distantly, “You cannot hide from the eyes of the Lord…!”

Then... nothing.

You crouched there, heartbeat like thunder—blood dripping slowly down your cheek, mixing with water and sweat.

You didn’t know how long you sat there.

Minutes, maybe hours.

Until—

A silhouette.

You gasped, and began to scramble back into the rock wall.

The figure stumbled through the waterfall and collapsed into the pool.

It was Remmick.

“Remmi!”

You crawled to him as he struggled upright, soaked, panting—bloodied and bruised.

A gash on his forehead bled into his temple, and his hands were raw and torn.

His shoulders were slumped with exhaustion, but the moment he saw you—shaken, but still alive—he smiled, even through the pain.

“Ye... alright?” he rasped.

You threw your arms around him.

He winced, sucking in a breath, but clutched you tightly with what strength he had left.

His blood smeared against your already bloodied sleeve.

“I thought they—” you choked.

“Couldna let ‘em... touch ye...” he whispered back.

Outside the cave, the sun finished setting.

Inside, you held him tighter, trembling in his arms, both of hidden in a cold hollow behind a veil of water.

The time to act was drawing near.

“No more time,” he whispered hoarsely. “We do spell... before s'too late.”

You shook her head, eyes wide, “No—no, I can’t. M'not leaving ya. Not while they’re still out there. They’ll kill you tryna find me.”

“I be alright,” he tried, voice trembling even as he reached for your hand. “Can hold off long... promise—”

“No, Remmick, listen to me.”

Your words were sharp, panicked, tumbling out of your chest like rain off a rooftop.

“They’ll hurt you again. You already beat to hell. And what about the cottage? The horses, the goats, the land? You can’t rebuild all that alone. And—and where’s Rian? What if he’s dead, what if I—what if this is all my fault—”

“No—”

“—and I don’t care if it is or if it isn’t, I still can’t leave you. I won’t. I don’t know how to—I love you, Remmick—”

His hand came up to cup your cheek, firm but gentle, silencing your spiral, “A ghrá…”

You froze.

Remmick leaned in close, his forehead pressing against yours.

You could feel every bit of the trembling in his arms, the warmth of him, the heartbreak in the air between.

“Ye... my angel,” he said, voice low and aching. “I ne'er laugh... ne'er smile... ne'er know. Ye fall out star… in my life.”

“Remmick…”

“(y/n)... ye my love,” he breathed. “I never forget ye... woman from heavens.”

Your eyes welled with tears.

You tried to speak, but your breath caught in your throat.

“Choice t'save meself… o' save ye—always ye.”

Before you could argue, he kissed you.

Fierce.

Tender.

Shattering.

The kind of kiss that wrapped itself into the soul and sewed a stitch that would never come undone.

A kiss that felt like a lifetime lived and a goodbye all at once.

And then, he pulled back, just slightly.

Eyes locked to yours.

Fingers trembling where they held you.

Voice steady, but reverent.

“I gcuirim an mhaighdean mhín seo ar ais dá haimsir féin. Imithe go deo. Riamh mo.”

"I send this gentle maiden back to her own time. Gone forever. Never mine."

You breath caught.

“Remmick—?”

But he kissed you once more, softly this time, a final press of lips like the closing of a prayer.

“Don’t forget me,” he whispered.

And before you could stop him—before you could even process—he shoved you back through the veil of the waterfall.

Your arms flailed, your mouth opened in a cry.

“Remmick!”

The moonlight hit the stone.

And in a flash of light and air and absence, the world fell out from under you.

The wind screamed.

The trees spun.

The stars blurred.

Your body felt as though it was being stretched across the seam of time itself.

The force pulled from your very bones, jerking you forward, flinging your soul through the crack between centuries.

And then—

Thud.

You hit the ground.

Hard.

For a long moment, you lay there, panting, blinking through the blur.

The world around you was still.

The air smelled different.

Familiar.

Slowly, painfully, you pushed yourself onto your elbows.

The trees…

The trees were familiar.

“Lord…” you whispered, dizzy, heart beating out your chest.

The stars above no longer glittered through a veil of ancient fog, but shined clearly in a Mississippi sky.

Of course... it wasn't like you could tell the difference.

“Musta tripped up bad back there…”

.

.

VIII. Ireland - 1504

Morning arrived shrouded in haze.

Pale gold light poured in through the warped panes of the inn’s windows, catching in threads of steam rising from the warm breakfast you had already packed into a small satchel Remmick scrounged up.

Bread.

Apples.

A wedge of salty cheese.

Water in a cured leather skin.

You'd made sure everything was ready, hands steady even as your heart knocked harder with each passing minute.

Your dress was cinched, cloak drawn tight.

The weight of the necklace you'd once feared now pressed against your chest like a promise.

Remmick stood by the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, one boot hooked behind the other.

His eyes followed you with quiet intensity, brows pinched in thought.

He had already spoken to the innkeeper, paid his tab in full with a few shillings to spare.

All that remained was slipping out unseen.

He cleared his throat softly.

“We go out the alley,” Remmick said. “There a door by the kitchen. Not many lookin’ there.”

You nodded, your fingers ghosting over the satchel strap, “M'ready.”

Just as he turned the knob, a sharp, distant shout split through the morning stillness like an axe into wood.

Voices.

Shouting.

Boots.

And then, a low, collective gasp from the patrons downstairs, chairs scraping hastily against the floor as the innkeeper shouted something incoherent before rushing to the door.

You and Remmick shared a glance.

“What—?” you started, but he lifted a hand, sharp and commanding.

A clamor of hooves against cobblestone.

The hiss of steel.

Bells.

Cloaks.

Chanting.

Quickly exiting the room and descending the stairs, you both crept through the back hallway and pushed open the side door that led into the alley, slipping into the shadows cast by the looming wooden beams above.

You peeked past the edge of the wall, your breath catching in your throat at the sight.

Down on the main road, they came like phantoms cloaked in righteousness.

A procession of clergymen on pure white stallions, their robes immaculate and gilded with silver thread, riding two by two in solemn silence.

Crosses swung from their necks like pendulums, catching the light like blades.

Bibles clutched in gloved hands.

Some carried torches, unlit for now.

Others, cruel-looking rods wrapped in leather bands.

They stopped before the tavern steps, and one of them—broad-shouldered and high-chinned—raised a hand and spoke in formal Old English, his voice cold and commanding:

“Let this soil be scoured clean by the Lord’s mercy. Let fire purge the unrepentant. Let the heathens be shown the true path by holy iron and flame.”

Another answered with fervor:

“We ride at dusk. For the glory of God. For the salvation of the isles. For the end of heresy and witchcraft.”

Your blood turned cold.

Leaning close to Remmick, you whispered, “Who are they...?”

But Remmick’s gaze was locked on the men, hard and steady, mouth drawn in a sharp, unyielding line.

His jaw flexed.

His voice was lower than she’d ever heard it, like a distant growl.

“We go... now.”

He took your wrist—firm but not rough—and pulled you back from the alley’s edge, winding behind barrels, crates, and stacks of straw as the townsfolk surged to the streets.

No one saw you slip toward the stables, no one noticed the back gate creak open, or the quick hush of hooves on hay as Remmick readied the horses.

But as he helped you up onto your saddle and mounted his own, one last glance over his shoulder caught the white glint of those robes.

The flash of a steel cross in the sunlight.

His eyes narrowed, the shadow in his gaze deepening.

His heart was thudding not with fear—but with fury.

Because Remmick knew what these kinds of men did.

And he knew better than most what they thought of “witches.”

Without another word, he clicked his tongue and spurred the horse forward, you following just behind, the morning light swallow you two as the narrow path opened up into a road that would carry you away.

Away from fire.

Away from purging.

Toward the hills.

But behind, the sound of boots on stone never stopped echoing.

.

.

.

The journey had been quiet after you left the village.

The horses trotted without complaint along the narrow dirt roads, past sloping green hills and old stone walls veined with moss.

Wind coursed through the open fields in long, sighing gusts, as though Eíre herself was whispering a warning neither of you could quite decipher.

But when you finally stopped, the day had reached its golden midpoint, sun hung heavy in the sky and dipping low enough to cast long shadows over the rolling countryside.

You came upon a glen—a shallow, secluded dip in the earth, blanketed in clover and framed by tall sycamores and elms.

The place was still, caught in a perfect hush, as though it had forgotten how to breathe.

Birds chirped lazily, the air was warm, and somewhere nearby the faint trickle of running water promised respite.

You dismounted and exhaled.

Remmick took the reins of both horses, leading them off to graze near a shaded corner of the glen.

You had explained what the witch told the night before—about the stones, the spell, and how you could be sent back at the next full moon.

Remmick listened in silence, his gaze fixed somewhere on the horizon, the tendons in his jaw twitching slightly.

When you finished, he finally looked.

“Moon bright in the fields,” he said with quiet certainty. “We ride night an' day, reach in time.”

You both knew what that meant.

Your time together was growing short.

The air between had begun to stretch and hum with the fragile ache of that knowledge.

“Then we best rest up before we ride into two days of hell. You get the firewood, and I’ll get a wash.”

You winked.

He rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he turned away.

Later, when he returned to the clearing with arms piled high with wood—far more than necessary—he frowned at the emptiness.

The horses were where he left them, but you hadn’t come back. No footsteps in the soil.

No laughter.

Just the weight of silence.

A knot tightened in his chest.

He called your name—“(y/n)?”—his brogue thick with concern as he dropped the firewood.

He turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning the glen.

“(y/n)?” he called again, this time louder, voice tensed with panic.

Nothing.

Just wind rustling the branches and the soft buzz of flies.

And then—like a thread tugged on some ancient spindle—he heard it.

A hum.

It started faint, like a lullaby from a dream, floating between trees on the breeze.

It was older.

Wilder.

Half joy, half enchantment.

A siren's call woven with the threads of Eíre herself.

Remmick stilled, heart thudding against his ribs.

Drawn like a moth to fire, he followed it, stepping softly between the trees, through a patch of brambles and swaying ferns.

The trees grew closer together the further he went, tall and knotted, their branches hanging low like fingers pointing.

He dropped to one knee, hands trembling slightly as he parted the dense curtain of hanging vines.

What lay beyond stole the breath from his lungs.

A secret pond shimmered under a soft haze, its surface broken by gliding lotus flowers and rippling fireflies glowing gold.

A gentle waterfall trickled at the far edge, singing against smooth stone.

And in the center of it all—bathed in this ethereal glow—was you.

You sat waist-deep in the clear water, bare skin gleaming like bronze kissed by starlight.

Your hair was wet and clung to you, framing your face in inky curls.

Your back was straight, chin tilted upward ever so slightly, mouth curved in a small, secret smile.

In your hands, you cupped a tiny duckling, stroking its downy feathers while cooing softly to it.

The same haunting hum threaded through your lips.

You didn’t know he was watching.

Remmick didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

His breath hitched—heart roaring against the walls of his chest—as his gaze drank you in.

You weren't just beautiful.

You were a vision spun from another world, dropped here in this hidden pocket of magic where no one else could see.

Where only he could.

You looked up suddenly, eyes soft, glowing.

And he thought—this is what the poets died trying to describe.

This is why men go mad.

And then, the ground betrayed him.

The bit of earth he crouched on crumbled beneath him with a dull crack.

His weight gave out and he tumbled forward with a yelp, vines snapping around him, leaves fluttering, and a sharp splash cut through the peace like a blade.

“A dhiabhail!”

"Shit!"

The duckling squawked and scrambled away in a flurry of splashes.

“Remmi!” you yelped, startled as your arms shot to cover herself—your eyes wide, cheeks blushing hot, limbs folding in defensively.

You stood half in water, half out, dripping.

Remmick emerged from the pond, soaked to the bone, hair slicked against his head and a half-dozen water plants clinging to his shirt.

He sputtered, wiped his face, and froze when he saw you looking at him—wet, bare, eyes ablaze with something unspoken.

He gulped, “I… uh… firewood.”

“Did you fall in?!”

He nodded slowly, not daring to look lower than your chin, “Ground… it broke.”

The duckling let out a long peep from the edge of the pond, as if chastising him too.

You stared at him, panting, chest rising and falling.

Then suddenly, a laugh bubbled from your lips.

Wild.

Uncontrolled.

And he, helpless fool that he was, laughed too—because what else could he do?

There you were, wrapped in sunlight and pond water, and he’d fallen face-first into your world like an idiot.

And he never wanted to leave it.

You tilted her head at him, not bothered in the least.

“If you want to wash up too… the space's big enough,” you offered softly, a teasing warmth in your voice.

His gaze lingered, "Ye sure?”

You nodded once, expression relaxed, “’Course I am.”

Still wary, he looked a moment longer before moving toward the edge of the pond.

You turned around—mostly, anyway—though your eyes did sneak a glance or two, catching glimpses of bare, sculpted muscle as he peeled his soaked shirt away and dropped it onto a mossy stone.

Your throat tightened slightly as he stepped into the water with barely a ripple, the fireflies casting soft golden light over the planes of his chest and stomach.

You both were silent, the air thick with something electric.

You busied yourself washing again with the sponge you'd brought, pretending not to feel the tension stretching like wire.

But eventually, you turned your head slightly over your shoulder.

“Want me to get your back?” you asked, voice smooth, lighthearted—but there was something unmistakable underneath.

Something bold.

Remmick paused.

Then nodded, once.

You padded through the water toward him, sponge in hand, your eyes tracing the thick lines of his back—faintly-moled and strong, the ridges of his shoulders rising and falling slowly as he breathed.

You brought the sponge to his skin and began to drag it down in slow, deliberate strokes.

The water lapped gently around you.

Your fingers brushed him, once, then again, and he tensed.

You moved lower, the sponge sliding across the hard curve of his shoulder blade, the edge of his spine.

You didn’t rush, every movement as languid as the current.

Then, silently, you stepped around him—the water stirring as your eyes met.

You lifted the sponge again and began to wash his chest.

First his collarbone, slowly tracing its line.

Then across his pec, the water beading and rolling down the soft muscle.

Your fingers followed, gentle, reverent.

The sponge trailed lower, only slightly—but enough for the air to feel charged and humming.

The way he looked at you made your chest seize.

His eyes burned into yours—dark and deep and hungry, as though he were trying to memorize every inch of you.

As though he might devour you whole if you let him.

And god, did you want him to.

You barely had time to think before his hand found your hip beneath the surface.

It slid around firmly, pulling you flush against him, while the other hand came up to you jaw—cradling, commanding.

You couldn’t breathe.

Together, you stared, your chests brushing, the water swirling between.

Your hand came up instinctively, curling around the back of his neck.

And, in an instant, you tugged him down.

The kiss was searing—all at once, like wildfire catching in dry brush.

His lips claimed yours, and you answered with equal fervor, fingers fisting in his curls.

Your mouths moved in unrelenting rhythm, a frantic crash of longing that had been building from the very first moment you met.

Water splashed around as you moved.

He groaned softly into your mouth, pulling you tighter, hands trailing over the curve of your back and hips.

You pressed closer, kissing him deeper, tasting the heat, the hunger, the weight of every unsaid word.

His lips broke from your only to trail across your cheek, then lower—down your neck, lingering at your pulse.

He kissed there, suckled lightly, the rasp of his stubble catching your breath.

Then lower, further—his hands steady, guiding.

As he latched onto your nipple, your head fell back with a whisper of his name.

And then, without warning, he lifted you.

You gasped, legs reflexively wrapping around his waist as you carried her effortlessly out of the pond, droplets trailing down your bodies.

You never stopped kissing him, lips pressed to his jaw, his throat, his collar as he strode through the willows and laid you down in the soft moss and grass near the shaded edge.

There, with the sound of the waterfall nearby and the sun just starting to dip, he hovered over you.

He murmured something in Gaeilge—soft, reverent, awed.

Words meant only for you.

You answered only with a breathless whisper of his name, one hand stroking his face, the other sliding down his side.

Then you guided him to you—deliberate, trembling with anticipation.

And what followed was a tangle of limbs and mouths, hands roaming, bodies pressing together with the urgency of every repressed touch.

Every kiss was hungry, every sigh thick with need.

And though the world felt like it faded away—no time, no place, no rules—what remained was the feeling: of worship, of raw affection, of something deeper and far more extensive than the magic of the land you sprawled on.

When you lay tangled afterward, breathless, the wind ruffling the trees and a golden glow settling over the glen, Remmick pressed his face into the curve of your neck.

His arm wrapped around your bare waist, holding you close as though anchoring himself to you.

And in a hoarse, low whisper, he breathed against your skin:

“Yer mine… a ghrá… mine.”

.

.

VII. Ireland - 1504

The day unfolded slowly, soft and golden in its passing.

With sunlight filtering lazily through the warped glass of the inn’s small window, Remmick sat perched at the edge of the bed, recounting all he’d learned to you still nestled beneath the linen sheets.

And you watched him with wide, curious eyes, soaking in every word.

“S'a woman comin' tonight,” he said, his tone laced with cautious hope. “A witch. One man, Callum... say she real. Show up when she please. Ne'er speaks straight, but she help people... done things.”

You sat up straighter, bedsheet slipping slightly from your shoulder.

“Ya think she can help me get back?” you asked, voice feather-light.

Remmick’s gaze lingered on you a second too long before he nodded, “There a chance... we take it.”

With the weight of possibility hanging gently in the air, the day stretched itself into something slow and syrupy sweet.

Neither of you rushed it.

With no chores to be done and nowhere to go, you made quiet company of each other.

You talked—about nothing and everything.

You laughed at Remmick’s dry wit, and he found himself offering more of it just to hear you giggle.

At one point, you caught yourself watching him a little too closely as he fixed a loose hinge on the window.

The way the muscles in his arms flexed beneath his shirt, the way his mouth tilted up in half-smiles when you said something clever, the warmth in his voice when he called you by name—it all stirred something in your chest.

Something dangerous.

Something thrilling.

Your eyes lingered on him longer than you meant them to.

You traced the outline of his jaw in your mind, the way the light caught in his eyes.

And then there was his laugh—low, earnest, never given freely but precious when it came.

It made your stomach flutter every time.

You didn’t know what to call it, but it was growing.

And it frightened you as much as it comforted you.

In this strange world, he had become your only constant.

You shared bread and soft cheese, a few pieces of fruit, and watered cider in the warmth of the room, sprawled across the bed and laughing about nothing.

At some point, your hands brushed—brief, accidental, but electric.

You blushed.

He looked away.

As the sun dipped below the hills, casting long shadows and igniting the sky with rose and amber, Remmick rose and buttoned his shirt once more.

“I go down now," he said. "If she real... she be there."

You looked up at him, uncertainty flickering in your eyes, “Be careful.”

He gave a crooked smile that warmed you from the inside out.

And then he was gone.

Downstairs, the taproom had once more roared to life, the heavy scent of ale and sweat thick in the air, music scraping from a fiddle in the corner, and laughter sloshing like drink in a tankard.

Remmick made his way through the throng, shoulders squared but stomach tight with anticipation.

He scanned the room—once, twice—and then his gaze landed on her.

She sat in the corner like she owned the shadow that framed her.

Red hair cascading in fire-licked waves over a black shawl, green eyes gleaming with something ancient and unreadable.

She nursed a heavy stein of ale that never seemed to drain, no matter how often she drank from it.

She looked up as if sensing him and tilted her head with a knowing smile.

He hesitated—then crossed the room.

“Gabh mo leithscéal,” he said cautiously, voice firm despite his nerves. “Is tusa an bhean a d’inis siad dom fút… an chailleach?”

"Excuse me. Are you the woman they told me about... the witch?"

“Bhí mé ag fanacht leat, Remmick.” she said in perfect Gaeilge, her accent lilting, unnervingly musical.

"I've been waiting for you, Remmick."

She didn’t ask for his name.

She simply knew it.

His eyes flicked to the mug in her hand, watching with a quiet chill as the liquid inside refilled itself slowly, silently, with no hand or pitcher in sight.

Still, he pushed forward.

“Chuala mé go mb’fhéidir go mbeadh eolas agat ar… daoine atá as áit. As am eile, fiú."

"I heard you might know something about… people out of place. Out of time, even."

The woman tilted her head slightly, eyes amused.

“Is minic a thagann daoine as a suíomh. Uaireanta, tagann siad chun foghlaim. Uaireanta, chun dearmad a dhéanamh. Uaireanta, tugtar orthu dul ar ais.”

"People often come out of place. Sometimes, they come to learn. Sometimes, to forget. Sometimes, they are meant to return."

“Agus tá a fhios agat conas cabhrú léi filleadh?” he pressed, voice low.

"And do you know how to help her return?"

The woman’s gaze drifted up toward the ceiling, as if watching something unseen.

“Tá an fhírinne mar ghaoth—ní féidir greim a fháil uirthi. Ach uaireanta, má éisteann tú go ciúin, cloisfidh tú an rud atá de dhíth ort.”

"The truth is like the wind—you cannot grasp it. But sometimes, if you listen quietly, you’ll hear what you need."

Frustration flickered across Remmick’s brow.

“Ach sin... ní freagra é sin.”

"But that’s... not an answer."

He turned slightly, exasperated, and dragged a hand through his hair.

When he turned back, she was gone.

His breath caught in his throat.

The corner where she sat was empty.

Not a soul remained near it.

The stein rested where she’d left it—still full, still untouched by any natural law.

The crowd around him continued to drink and shout and play as if no one had ever been there at all.

Eyes wide, Remmick spun slowly in place, scanning every drunken, swaying body in the room.

But she was nowhere to be found.

Not among the benches, not near the door.

Just... vanished.

.

.

.

Upstairs, the small rented room was quiet save for the soft creak of the vanity chair and the gentle tune being hummed by you, who was sitting before its clouded mirror.

The wooden floor was warm beneath your bare feet, the golden hue of the late sun spilling through the window in long shafts of amber.

The linen of your shift caught the light, and you absently ran your fingers through a coiled section of hair, tugging it upward and letting it spring back down.

You sang gently under you breath, a song from back home in Clarksdale—an old tune her grandmother used to hum while sewing patches into quilts:

🎵 "Sun gon’ rise, even when the tears still fall… Lay your burdens down by the river’s call..." 🎵

You smiled softly at the memory, the familiar lilt of the Delta in your voice soothing some of the tightness in her chest.

Your mind wandered—to Remmick’s smile that morning, to the warm tray of food he had brought, to the way his calloused hands had fumbled just slightly when brushing a curl from your face.

You blushed at the memory, then giggled softly, brushing the heat from your cheeks.

But then—

A strange chill stirred the air.

Something pricked at your spine.

Your humming halted.

The hairs on your arms rose.

Your gaze darted up to the mirror—and you froze.

There—just beyond the bedframe—stood a woman.

A stranger.

Fiery red hair curled wild down her shoulders, lips curled in a sly smile.

Her green eyes glittered like blades in the candlelight, ancient and amused.

She looked as though she’d been there the whole time.

You jumped to your feet with a sharp gasp, knocking the chair over as you lunged across the vanity.

Your fingers wrapped instinctively around the dagger Remmick had given you—a simple blade, honed and weighty in your grip—and turned, brandishing it with fury.

“Who the hell are you?!” you demanded, heart pounding. “How’d you get in here?!”

The door had been bolted, the only window barely wide enough for a cat.

The woman didn’t flinch.

Instead, she leaned her hip against the wall, one finger pressed to her lips in quiet contemplation.

Her accent was light, kissed with something Scottish, and yet her English was flawless.

“Let me guess… 1945?”

You blinked, “What?”

The woman’s smile widened, eyes raking you over like a curiosity.

“‘56…? No? ‘83…? 2000?”

Her voice was sing-song, teasing.

“…‘32,” you whispered, voice caught between disbelief and wariness. “1932.”

The woman clicked her tongue and snapped her fingers with theatrical flair, “Aye... that was my fifth guess.”

You didn’t lower the blade, but confusion had begun to overpower your fear.

“How do you—who are you? What is this?” you asked. “How do you know where I’m from?”

The red-haired woman pushed herself from the wall and walked toward the bed, unhurried, graceful.

She glanced at the necklace glittering around your throat.

“You’re not the first to fall through time like this,” she said simply. “And you won’t be the last.”

Your fingers trembled on the hilt of the dagger.

“The stone,” the witch continued, pointing lazily. “That necklace... it’s one of many. Scattered across the world. Each cut from a larger stone buried deep beneath this land. Ireland’s got a way of keeping old magic, even when no one believes in it anymore.”

You stared at her, too stunned to interrupt.

“I’ve seen travelers from all sorts of places. Some from decades in the future. Some from worlds that are long gone. Time’s messy like that. Can’t always predict where it’ll spit you out.”

“…And you?” you asked, voice tight. “Where are you from?”

The woman smirked, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek, “Inverness. Nineteen sixty-eight.”

The blade in your hand wavered.

“But you... you’ve been here for—?”

“A long time,” she said softly. “Longer than I meant to be. But that’s the cost of wanderin’ too far without knowin’ the rules.”

You lowered the dagger, your arm finally too tired to keep up.

“So how do I get back?” you whispered. “I can’t stay here. I can’t. I have a family. People I need to get back to.”

The woman’s expression softened.

She stepped closer, now face-to-face.

There was no mockery in her voice, only quiet wisdom.

“On the next full moon, someone must speak the incantation carved on the back of that necklace. Speak it true, speak it in belief… then hold it to the moonlight. That’s the only way it’ll open the path.”

“But you can’t do it?” you asked.

The woman shook her head.

“No. Someone must send you back. Someone of this time. The stone won't open to your own hand.”

“Why?”

The woman only shrugged, a wistful smile tugging at her lips.

“Magic has rules. Even if we don’t understand them.”

Before you could ask anything more—

The door burst open.

Remmick charged in, eyes wild, breath sharp in his lungs.

His gaze swept the room, locking on the woman in black instantly.

He stepped forward with protective fury in his chest, arms instinctively raised to shield you.

But the witch only chuckled.

“Well,” she said with a wink, “good luck.”

And with that—she vanished.

No flash.

No smoke.

No sound.

One moment she was there, and the next, she wasn’t.

You and Remmick were left in stunned silence, the air strangely still.

“…I swear the door was locked,” you said quietly, clutching the dagger against your chest.

Remmick didn’t answer right away.

His heart was still racing.

But slowly, his eyes found your.

He nodded once, gravely.

You stood there, bathed in the golden light, time seemingly suspended around them.

And in the stillness, one thing became achingly clear:

Your world was changing.

And it had only just begun.

.

.

VI. Ireland - 1504

The inn room was simple, but warm.

It held a small hearth now glowing with coals, a thick braided rug underfoot, and a tall, narrow bed covered in woolen blankets.

The walls, though bare, breathed the soft scent of peat smoke and dried herbs.

After a short while spent ensuring you were properly settled, Remmick had gone back downstairs, leaving you in the safety of drawn curtains and a bolted door.

You'd watched him go with an odd twist in your chest.

Something like warmth.

Something like worry.

But, true to his word, he returned not long after with a plate of food—barley stew, thick bread with butter, and a small dish of blackberries, glistening in a little wooden bowl.

He’d only said, “Eat,” before giving a little nod and slipping out once more to brave the taproom, to do what you could not:

Ask questions.

You ate slowly, savoring the warmth of real food, the heaviness of it settling in your stomach like peace.

Still, your mind wandered.

What if no one knew anything?

What if this was it—Galway, a blank wall?

What if someone recognized you for what you were: not from here?

You stared into the low-burning hearth and drew your knees to your chest on the bed.

Your arms wrapped around your legs.

The food in your belly soured with each spiraling thought.

Your fingers tightened on the coarse blanket.

You couldn't go back to Clarksdale if they didn’t find the right person, the right spell, the right anything.

What if you were trapped in this place?

What if—

You shook your head, blinking hard.

“No,” you whispered aloud. “Don’t do that. Don’t think like that.”

The warmth of the room pressed close, heavy with quiet.

The stew, the fire, the travel—it all made your eyelids droop.

Your fingers began to work at the laces of your bodice, and slowly, sluggishly, you began to undress.

You peeled away the layers of your borrowed clothes, heavy with the scent of hay and smoke, down to your shift.

It was soft from wear, pale and nearly translucent when the firelight hit it just right.

You caught your reflection in the darkened window for a flicker of a second—bare legs, shoulders, your silhouette softened by flickering gold.

You felt like you might as well be naked.

Still, your body longed for the bed.

The blankets called like a lullaby.

You had just begun to pull back the covers when—thud.

A dull, fleshy noise came from the door.

You froze.

Another thump.

Your breath hitched in your chest, and you immediately turned toward the noise, heart pounding.

Someone was at the door.

No—against it.

Your first thought: They found me.

Your second: Remmick?

Your third: What if it’s not?

You scrambled, bare feet slapping against the cold floorboards, and snatched the heavy brass candlestick from the table.

Raising it like a club, you crept to the door, shift fluttering at your knees.

You inhaled sharply, yanked the bolt, and flung the door open—

And immediately stepped on something solid.

“Oof—!” a muffled groan rose up from the floor.

You looked down.

“Remmick?!”

He lay crumpled on his side, eyes squeezed shut as he clutched his ribs, your foot still pressed awkwardly into his hip.

“What the—Remmick, what on earth are you doin’?! I thought you were downstairs talkin’! Were you... were you peepin’ on me?!”

He sat up quickly, waving his hands, flustered and breathless.

“No, no, no... I sit... by the door.”

Your brows knit in confusion, “Why would you be sittin’ out there? You hurt?”

He groaned again and leaned his head back against the wall, then looked at you, eyes slightly sheepish.

“S'no good. Men too drunk. Knew nothin'.”

“So you came back up?”

He nodded, rubbing his side.

“Saw a man comin'... had to guard,” he gave you a shrug and the smallest, crooked smile. “...Protect.”

That gave you pause.

The anger melted away in your chest, replaced by something quieter, something gentler.

Your grip on the candlestick slackened, and your eyes softened.

“You coulda just come in.”

Remmick hesitated.

“But... one bed?” His voice dropped a little.

You snorted lightly, “After all this? Please.”

You extended your hand, eyes twinkling, “C’mon in.”

He looked at your hand for a heartbeat, then reached for it, letting you tug him to his feet and inside.

You shut the door behind with a soft click, and suddenly the room felt smaller than before.

Warmer.

Awkwardness settled between like dust in sunlight.

You both looked toward the bed at the same time.

Remmick rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at you sidelong, “Ye... sure?”

“I trust you,” you said quietly. “And it’s cold. And it’s late. And ya look like you need the rest.”

He nodded once.

You turned your back to the bed, giving him his space.

Sitting down at the edge, facing the hearth, you listened to the soft shuffle of clothes behind her—the clink of a belt, the quiet swish of fabric.

You couldn’t help it.

You peeked.

Just a glance.

His shirt was thin, clinging faintly to the hard lines of his back, the dip of his waist.

The firelight cast shadows that made him look sculpted from old, weathered ivory.

You swallowed, then turned quickly back to the wall.

God, girl, get a grip.

When you heard the bed creak, you finally slid in on your side, pulling the blankets up to your chest.

He settled in next to you, keeping to his side, lying stiff as a board with his hands tucked over his stomach.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Neither of you moved.

The silence was enormous... until—

“Yer hair,” he murmured. “S'like night.”

You blinked, turning your head just slightly.

“Dark...” he explained, a finger slowly creeping to toy with a loose strand. “Soft.”

You couldn’t help it—your cheeks flushed hot.

“...Thank you,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

But he smiled.

In the hush that followed, something loosened in you.

Something uncoiled.

The bed, though narrow, felt like safety.

The warmth of the blankets and his quiet breathing beside you slowly eased the tension from your bones.

And even as sleep wrapped around you like cotton, a whisper of doubt flitted at the edge of your thoughts.

No, you reminded yourself as your eyes fluttered closed. No time. Don’t lose yourself in soft things.

But still, you didn’t move away.

And neither did he.

.

.

.

The morning broke in softly through the lace-like curtains of the small inn room, casting gentle golden threads across the wooden floor.

Dust motes danced in the beam of early sun, swirling like spirits.

The fire in the hearth had long gone out, leaving only warm embers and the scent of burnt ash lingering faintly in the room.

All was still, save for the slow rise and fall of breathing from the bed.

Remmick stirred first.

The warmth of another body against his side brought him into consciousness slowly, carefully.

His arm was pinned beneath your head, and your hand was curled lightly against his chest, just over where his heart lay beating a too-steady rhythm.

Your breath was soft against his collarbone, lips slightly parted, lashes casting faint shadows on your cheeks.

He froze.

Heat flooded his face.

You were curled into him like you'd always belonged there—like you'd known him for years instead of a few months.

The thin linen of his nightshirt felt suddenly too light, especially with the softness of your thigh hooked loosely over one of his legs, sheets tangled just low enough to bare your shoulder to the cool air.

Remmick swallowed, hard.

This... this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not like this.

Not when you were just a traveler, a strange visitor in time, desperate to get home.

Not when you were sleeping, unaware of how tightly you clung to him.

But he didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He took the moment—he stole it, really—and allowed himself to look.

You looked peaceful, something he rarely saw on your face.

No worry creased your brow.

No fear lined your mouth.

Your brown skin was awash in golden morning light, kissed by the warmth of the rising sun, and your wild curls had fanned out across the pillow like an unruly crown.

He wanted to touch them.

Just once.

Just to feel them between his fingers.

He hadn’t meant to care for you.

At first, you were just confusion and trouble—a stranger fallen from the stars, with no kin, no land, no claim to anything that made sense.

You spoke in ways he didn’t understand, stood tall with a fire that reminded him of lightning, and made even the dullest of chores feel like adventures.

You had laughed together in the fields.

Shared bread and stories.

Learned each other’s words, and argued over the best way to skin a rabbit.

There was joy in your presence.

Fierce and unrelenting joy.

And something about that was dangerous to a man like him—dangerous and intoxicating.

He had never met anyone like you.

Not just in looks—though you were breathtaking.

Brown as warm earth, with eyes like honeyed glass and hair that the wind couldn’t tame.

But also in spirit.

You were unlike any woman he'd ever met.

You didn’t lower your eyes when men spoke.

You didn’t wait to be told what to do.

And yet… you listened.

You cared.

You noticed things.

Him.

And slowly—much too slowly—he’d started to fall.

He sighed softly, and with careful fingers, began to slip from beneath you.

Inch by inch, he withdrew his arm, replaced the press of his chest with a pillow, and tugged the sheet gently back over your exposed shoulder.

You stirred only slightly, murmuring something in sleep, before tucking your knees up and curling into the empty space he’d left.

Remmick lingered a moment more.

Watching.

Then he pulled on his trousers and tunic, cinched his belt, and padded toward the door.

He grabbed one of the heavy wooden chairs and propped it up beneath the handle from the outside—just in case anyone got curious—then moved briskly down the stairs into the quiet of the taproom.

The scent of old ale and damp wood clung to the walls.

A few of last night’s rowdy men now hunched quietly over bowls of oat porridge, eyes bloodshot and heads low.

Gone were the roaring shouts and stomping boots.

In their place: muted grunts and clinks of spoons.

Remmick greeted the innkeeper with a nod and quietly requested a plate of breakfast to go—a bit of bread, some grapes, cheese, and a few slices of ham.

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

By now, Remmick’s presence had blended into the fabric of the town.

He returned to the taproom with purpose.

A few of the patrons glanced his way as he took a seat near the hearth, choosing his moment.

Then, switching to Irish, he leaned over to the closest elder and said, “Maidin mhaith daoibh. Tá ceist agam oraibh.”

"Good morning, everyone. I have a question."

The men grunted, half-interested.

“Tá mé ag lorg eolais faoi dhraíocht. Nó daoine… nach as an áit seo iad. Níos faide ná sin fiú.”

“I’m looking for information about magic. Or people… who aren’t from here. Even further than that.”

One of the younger men blinked, “Cad é? Cosúil le scéalta sí?”

"What? Like stories?"

“Nó amhráin,” chimed in an older fellow, rubbing his temple. “Chuala mé ceann uair faoi bhean a tháinig le solas na gealaí. Bhí sí clúdaithe i réaltaí. D’imigh sí arís i rith an lae.”

"Or songs. I once heard about a woman who came by moonlight. She was covered in stars. She disappeared again during the day."

Remmick leaned in, interest piqued, “Agus daoine a tháinig ó áit eile—ón todhchaí fiú?”

“And people who came from somewhere else—even from the future?”

Another man snorted, “Ceapaim go bhfuil do cheann sa scéalta.”

"I think your head’s in the stories."

But the older fellow spoke again, more soberly this time.

“Tá scéal ag dul thart... tá bean ag teacht anocht. Caint go bhfuil sí ina draoi. Cloisim gur féidir léi rudaí a fheiceáil nach féidir linn.”

“There’s a rumor going around… a woman is coming tonight. Rumor has it she’s a wizard. I hear she can see things we can’t.”

Remmick straightened, “An mbeidh sí anseo in Gaillimh?”

“Will she be here in Galway?”

“Sin an méid atá cloiste agam.”

"That’s what I've heard."

He thanked them sincerely, gathered the plate from the bar, and made his way swiftly upstairs.

The chair was still at the door.

He nudged it aside and stepped inside the room, the scent of fresh morning washing over him.

And then he froze.

You were awake.

Wrapped in sheets like soft ivory ribbon, your legs stretched beneath the covers, one shoulder bare to the golden light pouring in through the window.

Your curly hair, still tousled from sleep, framed your face in radiant disarray.

You had a piece of grape between your fingers, halfway to your mouth, and were smiling at him.

A slow, real smile.

Sleep-warmed.

Unafraid.

Beautiful.

His heart stopped.

You looked like something out of a dream—something he wasn’t supposed to touch.

“Mornin’, Remmi,” you said, voice thick with sleep, soft and honeyed.

Your eyes sparkled.

Remmick swallowed hard.

“Maidin mhaith (good morning)” he managed back, stepping slowly inside and setting his tray on the table. “I... I brought ye breakfast.”

Your gaze warmed, “You didn’t have to, but... thank you.”

And for a moment, as you reached for a bit of cheese, the sunlight caught the curve of your jaw, the slope of your nose, the fullness of your lips.

He watched you chew, slow and content.

He was done for.

There it was—the final click.

The weight in his chest.

The unshakable knowing.

He was falling in love with you.

And he wasn’t sure if he could stop.

.

.

V. Ireland - 1504

The morning air was crisp and kissed with dew, the kind that clung to your lashes and glistened on blades of grass like glass threads spun.

The quiet rustle of saddle leather and the murmuring cadence of Irish brogue filled the air outside the cottage as the men moved with quiet purpose.

Rían was focused, a roll of blankets under one arm and a sack of oats slung over his shoulder, the lines on his face more furrowed than usual.

Remmick moved with equal precision, securing provisions and making sure Saoirse—the steady, chestnut mare—was well-fed and fitted for the road ahead.

You watched from the doorway for a moment, your breath caught somewhere between awe and sorrow.

Inside, you carefully packed what little you had—Rían had gifted you a woven cloak of thick wool the color of storm clouds, and Remmick had slipped you a small knife with an ornately carved handle.

You tucked them into your satchel with reverence.

Before leaving, you stood for a long moment at the edge of the field behind the cottage, eyes sweeping over the undulating hills, the thatch roof against the pale morning sky, the goats wandering the slope.

The land breathed, alive and untouched by time, and you inhaled it like a prayer.

When it was time, you turned to Rían and stepped forward, eyes shining.

"Go raibh tú maith riamh," he said, voice thick and kind.

His large hand gently enveloped yours.

Remmick translated, softly smiling, “He say... ye been good.”

Rían continued, voice tinged with fatherly affection, “Téigh le Dia, a chailín. Bí cúramach.”

“He say... Go wit' God... be careful.”

Your throat tightened as you nodded, barely getting out a heartfelt, “Thank you,” before Remmick gently nudged your arm and gestured toward the horses.

And then you were off.

The clip-clop of hooves over damp earth created a steady rhythm as you left the cottage and its memories behind.

The world stretched wide and green before you, hills rising like sleeping giants in the distance, framed by wild hedgerows and crooked trees.

Birds darted through the air above like living brushstrokes, and somewhere far off, a brook sang its ancient tune.

To pass the time, Remmick pointed to a squirrel darting up a tree, “Iora.”

You blinked, amused.

“Squirrel,” you replied.

He furrowed his brows, “Squeer-ell?”

You laughed, shaking your head, “Close enough.”

Then, you pointed to a nearby oak, “Tree.”

“Crann,” he answered, tapping his chest, proud.

Back and forth you went, giggling through mispronunciations and exaggerated accents.

“Rock” became “cloch.”

“Sky” became “spéir.”

At one point, you pointed to your own boot and said, “Shoe,” to which Remmick responded confidently, “Bróg,” then looked confused as you wrinkled your nose.

“Bróg?” you echoed. “That sounds like a frog.”

But as the game quieted and the silence settled in, your gaze began to drift.

Fields stretched endlessly in every direction, like an emerald sea with no shore.

Sheep speckled the hillsides like tiny drifting clouds.

The sky arched above, a canvas of soft blues and greys, and somewhere in the distance, the faint spire of a ruin poked above a copse of trees.

“It’s so… wide,” you murmured, almost stunned. “Everything’s so open.”

Remmick glanced sideways, his expression soft.

“Eíre is proud,” he said.

You nodded, then added quietly, “Back home… we’ve got hills, too. With wildflowers. There’s a river nearby, wide and muddy, and in the summer the air is so thick you could drink it. My sister and I—” your voice caught slightly. “We’d run through the fields barefoot. Even when Mama said not to.”

There was a pause.

Your hands had tightened slightly on the reins.

“It smells different here,” you added, your voice softer now, like you were pulling yourself back from some faraway place. “Like damp grass. Home smells like hot dust.”

You laughed faintly, almost sadly.

“God, I miss it.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

The road ahead suddenly seemed longer.

Remmick looked ahead at the path, then back at your face—drawn, distant.

He knew that look.

He’d seen it before, back when his mother passed and the world felt strange without her in it.

Gently, he pulled on the reins, slowing Saoirse.

“We stop here,” he said, hopping down before you could ask why. “Night come quick.”

You both made camp under the cover of a small, rocky outcrop, a bed of moss cushioning your gear.

As you helped him gather firewood and unpack the bread and cheese, the sadness in your chest still lingered—but it no longer felt as heavy.

Not with him nearby.

Not with stars just beginning to twinkle above, and the scent of peat smoke curling in the air between.

.

.

.

The fire crackled low, warm and golden against the deepening blue of twilight.

Shadows flickered across Remmick’s face as he leaned forward to stoke the flames, his fingers calloused but careful.

You sat with your knees tucked to your chest, your satchel beside you, the smell of smoked wood and toasted bread curling aroundw like a shawl.

Above, the sky stretched wide and unending, a deep velvet expanse pierced by a thousand trembling stars.

You ate in a slow, unhurried silence—rough bread with cheese and a tart bit of berry preserved in a small linen bundle, the juice sticky on your fingertips.

When your meal was done, the two of you laid side by side in the cool grass, a shared patch of wool beneath to keep the damp from your backs.

The land around you was quiet, save for the chirping of crickets and the gentle rustle of the wind combing through the tall grass.

“Look at that,” you breathed, tilting your chin toward the stars. “Didn’t know skies could hold that many.”

Remmick followed your gaze, eyes softening as he watched the stars twinkle above like scattered silver dust.

“É go hálainn,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “Beautiful, aye?”

You turned your head toward him slowly.

His face was tilted skyward, lips parted just slightly in wonder, the firelight gilding the edge of his jaw.

There was something unguarded about him in that moment.

“Yes,” you whispered, though you weren't entirely sure he was still talking about the stars.

He turned his head then too, and your eyes met—his a dark, rich brown in the flicker of the flames.

The night hung between, low and sweet.

“Ye see stars… where ye from?” he asked, his accent curling gently around each word, imperfect but tender.

You shook your head, a quiet laugh escaping.

“Not like this... not so many.”

“Mm,” he considered that, squinting toward the sky. “Still good... Makes ye…”

He paused, gesturing with a broad hand, circling it over his chest as he searched for the word.

“Rest.”

You smiled, “Thas' a good word for it.”

A beat passed.

Remmick watched you carefully, as though sensing the ache beginning to sneak into her words, “Ye miss... Missus-ippy?”

You nodded slowly, “All the time."

He said nothing for a moment.

Then, gently: “But... ye here?"

“I know,” you exhaled. “Doesn’t mean my heart's not there.”

He hesitated, then reached out and picked a blade of grass, rolling it between his fingers.

“Heart there..." he raised a brow, a matter-of-fact smile ghosting over his lips. “Or head there?”

You blinked, startled by the unexpected truth.

He'd seen right through it.

Surprised, you let out a quiet scoff, “Y'know, for a guy who says he can't speak much English, you're quite the poet.”

He chuckled, a low, amused sound in his chest, “Quick study.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The soft churr of crickets and the swaying hush of the grass filled the space like music.

“You always this sweet?” you asked quietly, teasing but tentative.

Remmick tilted his head, “Easy wit’ beautiful woman.”

You laughed, but warmth rushed up your neck like flame, flushing your cheeks.

Looking up, you pretended to examine the stars again, but your smile tugged at the corners of your mouth.

“A smooth-talker, too.”

His brow knit, “Smooth... talk-er?”

“Nevermind,” you said, your words cresting into a large yawn.

Remmick shifted, rising slowly to sit with a grunt.

"Ye sleep... I keep watch.”

You hesitated, glancing toward him, “An' if somethin' comes?”

“I wake ye... or kill.”

You chuckled sleepily, rising to pull the borrowed blanket around your shoulders.

“If it’s got more than two legs, I expect a warning.”

He nodded, and with that, you laid back down beside the fire, your body curling into the warmth.

You could still feel his eyes on you as your lashes fluttered.

The crackling fire, the smell of grass, the taste of his words still on your tongue—it all softened your edges.

But as you teetered on the edge of sleep, your thoughts flickered.

No time for this.

Not here.

Not now.

Not when I still have to find a way home.

And yet, your dreams were full of green hills and starlight.

And the sound of his voice, saying your name.

.

.

.

The next two days passed in a blur of green and gold, of misty hills and glittering dew, of hoofbeats and low laughter that carried into the wind.

The road to Galway twisted through valleys and glens brushed in clover and stone, sunlight rippling over tall grass like fingers through silk.

Every hour brought a new stretch of Ireland’s beauty—crumbling stone walls stitched into the land like an old quilt, brooks that babbled secrets to anyone who paused long enough to listen.

You and Remmick fell into a rhythm.

Daylight hours were for riding, for learning—he’d point to something and name it in Gaeilge, a crooked grin playing on his lips as you fumbled to echo the sounds.

You'd respond in English, slow and patient, and he’d squint and mouth the syllables until they formed something halfway right.

You'd point to grass and dirt, to a bird with bright red feathers.

“Éan,” he’d say proudly.

“Bird,” you'd correct, teasing.

“Burrt,” he’d echo, only half on purpose, grinning when you laughed.

By the second night, you were still laughing—this time by the fire, cross-legged and wrapped in your cloak, while Remmick reclined on his elbows beside you.

“You snore,” you accused, poking at him with a stick.

“No,” he said, deadpan. “Ye snore.”

“Liar.”

He shrugged, eyes twinkling, “Ye sleep like baby goat.”

You barked out a laugh, “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

“Little one. Curled. With faces—”

He scrunched his nose and pulled a face, and you nearly tipped over with how hard you laughed.

But it wasn’t always jokes.

At night, when the land hushed around you, your words stretched long and quiet.

He told you stories of the land—about fairies who stole babies, about a forest woman with fire for hair.

You listened, chin tucked to your knees, and in return, told him about the streets of Clarksdale.

About juke joints and gossip and the way magnolias smelled in summer.

He didn’t understand all the words, but he listened with his whole body, leaned close, as if every syllable mattered.

You caught him watching sometimes—when you tucked your hair behind your ear, when you stretched your arms over your head.

Not crude.

Just... noticing.

Warm. Soft.

You weren't sure what to do with the flutter in your chest.

But Galway demanded your attention before you could think too long on it.

The city greeted you with sound and bustle—carts rumbling over cobblestone, calls from market women selling honey and lace, the clink of coins and creak of wagon wheels.

The stone buildings were taller than you'd expected, their shutters painted in bright colors, and sea wind whipped in from the west, smelling of salt and peat smoke.

You both approached an inn slowly, Remmick tugging his horse’s reins tight as he glanced toward the open doorway.

Then, without warning, he grabbed you by the wrist and yanked you into a narrow alley between two buildings.

Your back hit the cool stone with a thud.

“What—?”

“Shh,” he hissed, stepping close.

His hand didn’t leave your wrist.

“No woman like ye here... never.”

She blinked, “You mean...?”

He nodded, scanning the crowd at the inn’s entrance.

“Skin... hair... different. They look. Ask questions,” his eyes snapped back to yours, serious now.

You nodded, heart beginning to thump, “Okay... so what’s the plan?”

Remmick reached into the satchel at his side and pulled your cloak tighter around you, tugging the hood low over your brow so that your curls were fully hidden.

“Stay here. I go in. Pay... get key,” he paused, thumb grazing your cheekbone for the briefest second, voice dropping. “I look to ye... fast. Ye come.”

You swallowed, “Got it.”

He gave a nod, then turned and strode out across the street.

You watched from the shadows, heart hammering in time with your nerves.

He moved confident, a little aloof, the way only someone native to the land could.

At the inn’s door, he exchanged a few words with the innkeeper, all in Gaeilge.

Laughter rose between them as Remmick handed over a coin and accepted a brass key in return.

He glanced across the street.

Nodded.

You inhaled.

Go time.

Shoulders squared, you slipped from the alley, keeping your face angled down and arms tight to your sides beneath the cloak.

But just as you neared the inn’s entrance, two men staggered into your path, reeking of drink and sweat, laughing too loud for the hour.

You panicked for half a second—then acted.

With a sharp turn of your shoulder, you slammed into the nearer man’s chest.

“Oi!” he barked, stumbling backward.

Right into his friend.

They both went down in a tangle of limbs, curses flying.

“Cad é atá tú a dhéanamh, amadán?!” one shouted.

"What are you doing, fool?!"

“Ná cuir an milleán orm, is tusa a thosaigh é!”

"Don't blame me, you started it!"

“Mise? Ní raibh mé in aice leat fiú!”

"Me? I wasn't even near you!"

“Bhrúigh tú mé isteach sa bhalla!”

"You pushed into me!"

Fists flew.

A crowd began to gather.

The innkeeper stormed out, yelling.

You ducked through the fray, heartbeat roaring, straight toward Remmick.

He caught your hand in his without hesitation and squeezed it tight, a bright gleam of pride dancing in his eyes.

Then he tugged you inside the inn and up the stairs without a moment’s pause, the key already turning in the lock as the shouts faded below.

Inside, it was quiet—stone walls and low beams, a fire smoldering in the hearth.

Your heart still raced.

Your hand was still in his.

When he finally let go, you looked up at him, breathless but smiling, “Told ya I was quick on my feet.”

Remmick chuckled, low and warm.

And just like that, the door shut behind.

You were in.

.

.

IV. Ireland - 1504

It wasn't long before the days began to fold into one another—like soft linens left to dry in the sun.

Over the next two weeks, you found yourself absorbed into the slow rhythm of the hills—waking with the orange-tipped dawn, the smell of peat smoke in your hair, the far-off bleating of sheep—background music to a life you hadn’t meant to join.

Yet somehow, you had.

You fumbled through breakfast preparations with calloused hands and swept the stone floors clean of soot.

Your fingers grew familiar with wool and grain, with the stiff leather of boots that never quite fit right.

The weather was rarely kind, but there was always warmth waiting in the hearth—or in the slight smile Remmick would offer when you managed to say something halfway intelligible in his language.

Gaeilge came to you like fog on a mirror—just enough to see through, not enough to touch.

You could catch simple phrases now, follow small requests.

You understood when Remmick’s father told you to “watch the door” or “mind the pot.”

But you still muddled things often.

You'd once mistaken “bog an bealach” (move aside) for “kiss the pot,” which Remmick had laughed at for nearly ten minutes straight.

You didn’t mind, though.

You liked his laugh.

And more than that—you liked the growing sense of ease.

Late in the afternoon, the air still humming from a warm, stormless morning, the two of you stood side by side in the stables.

The scent of hay and leather was thick in the air, sweet and earthy.

Dust danced lazily in shafts of golden light pouring through the slats in the wood.

Remmick leaned over the edge of a stall, brushing out the thick, muddy tail of a chestnut mare with exaggerated focus.

“She bite,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Very mean.”

You snorted, “She’s not that bad.”

As if on cue, the horse nudged Remmick sharply with her head, nearly knocking the brush from his hands.

“Aye!” he cried, stumbling back with mock betrayal. “Ye see? She hate me.”

You broke into laughter, clutching the hay bale beside, “That’s ‘she hates me.’ Ya need the s.”

“Why s? Is many hate?”

“No... S'just—grammar.”

“Ahh,” he tapped his temple. “English. Big mess.”

You tossed a bit of straw at him, “You should talk. Báisteach sounds like a curse.”

He grinned, “Is... when rain's too much.”

You laughed together, the sound echoing high in the rafters like birdsong.

For a while, your shared world was only the quiet rhythm of the horses breathing, the rustle of straw, and the occasional curse when one of you dropped a bucket or got nipped.

Then, as he leaned to unbuckle a saddle, Remmick said, “Ye want story?”

You perked up, “Always.”

He turned, eyes dancing.

“Me Da... last summer... catch wild pig. Big beast... mean. He go out... but he forget gate open.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Remmick said, eyes wide with mock horror. “Pig run past ‘im. Into field. Into house.”

You gasped, teasingly playing up your surprise, “No!”

“Yes. Pig run through door... knock over soup... jump in me bed.”

That did it—you nearly doubled over laughing, breathless with the image.

“What did your father do?”

“He shout... he cry... he say, ‘Remmick! Get me gun!’ But pig leave... run into forest... ne'er see it since."

You snorted, trying and failing to muffle your smirk, “That was... quite a story.”

Remmick beamed with pride, puffing his chest, “M'a funny man.”

“Very funny,” you said through giggles. “Funniest I've ever met.”

He gave a grand, sarcastic bow.

For a moment, the stables were your whole universe—sunlight warm on their backs, the air filled with hay, horse breath, and the kind of laughter that took root in the chest and bloomed there.

There was no time, no warping weight of distance between where you were and where you longed to be.

No fear.

No wondering.

Just this—

The stable door creaked.

Remmick’s father stood silhouetted in the frame, his coat dusted with dirt, his expression unreadable.

“Tá siad ag gluaiseacht ó thuaidh, Remmick,” Rían said, not unkindly but firm. “Muna nglacaimid iad anois, beidh siad imithe faoin luí gréine.”

"They are moving north, Remmick. If we don’t take them now, they’ll be gone by sunset.”

Remmick’s smile slipped, just slightly.

“Boars,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his pants as he translated. “We hunt. Again.”

He turned to you, rolling his eyes like a bothered teenager.

“Good luck,” you said, still smiling, but something behind it now flickered uncertain.

He paused, taking a step closer, “Be back soon. Ye… stay warm, aye?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek, “I’ll try.”

Then, he was gone, boots thudding softly against the earth as the father and son disappeared into the thinning afternoon light.

And just like that, the laughter faded into silence.

You remained in the stall, alone now but still holding the warmth of moments just past—like coals in the palm of your hands.

Your chest felt strange—light, then suddenly heavy.

The space Remmick had filled only seconds ago was now wide and echoing, and the ache was quick, surprising.

It was more than just his absence.

It was the realization that something was beginning to matter here.

That you had begun to feel something again.

And that feeling, you knew, could be dangerous.

But for now, you breathed in the scent of the horse and hay and tried not to chase it away.

.

.

.

The cottage was quiet save for the soft bubbling of the pot hanging over the fire.

You stirred the cornmeal absently, rhythmically, the wooden spoon making a muted scrape as it circled the cast-iron basin.

You hummed low and slow—something familiar from home that made your chest ache in the silence.

You didn’t know the name of the tune, only that your mother used to sing it when she cooked on busy mornings.

Even Annie would sing it too, humming off-key just to make you laugh.

You pressed your lips together and blinked hard at the pot, watching the steam curl upward in ghostly ribbons.

What were you doing here?

Why here, of all places, of all people?

You couldn’t make sense of it—this country, this time, the rawness of the land and the language, the way the wind felt colder somehow and the stars at night looked bigger than back home.

Had God sent you here?

Had something gone wrong with that strange, glinting stone?

Were you meant to fix something?

Or worse… were you stuck?

Before you could spiral further, a bleating cry echoed from the pasture beyond the window.

Your brows pinched.

You wiped your hands on your skirt and stepped outside, greeted by the cool dusk air and the golden spill of sun across the horizon.

There in the distance, near the hedge of tall grass beyond the field, stood Niamh—an older nanny goat—nose to the wind, her shaggy body poised like she’d just done something clever.

You groaned a little, shaking your head.

“Now how did you get outta your pen, girl?”

You trotted over, boots crunching over damp earth, and carefully lifted the goat into your arms, the animal surprisingly docile in your hold.

You turned back toward the pen, prepared to scold Remmick for not fastening the latch properly, when the rustling came.

Then the grunts.

Then the thundering snorts.

You froze.

Out from the brush, three massive boars emerged, their muscled bodies low to the ground, dark bristles standing on end.

Their tusks curved like ivory scythes, glinting with old mud and menace.

One huffed and stomped the earth; the others followed suit.

Niamh bleated in terror and leapt from you arms.

You staggered, nearly falling, watching the goat disappear through the tall grass.

And then... they came for you.

You ran.

The vibrant ground blurred beneath your feet, breath tearing through your chest, arms pumping, eyes wide as panic burned its way into your bones.

You didn’t look back—couldn’t.

You could feel them, feel the tremble of their hooves pounding the earth behind you, feel the sharp cold of fear gripping your limbs.

The pen wasn’t far.

If you could just—

But your mind had already begun to spiral.

Annie. Mama. The sticky heat of Clarksdale afternoons. Music through the window. Home.

God, I don’t wanna die here. Please—I can’t die here.

Your foot caught on a root, and you stumbled—but before the world could blur and end—

CRACK.

A shot rang out through the fields like thunder.

One of the boars dropped instantly, legs twitching in the dirt.

You skidded to a halt, chest heaving, just as the other two began to turn in confusion.

Then came a blur of movement through the trees—a figure leaping into the clearing, tall and lean and fierce-eyed.

Remmick.

He surged forward, shouting something in Gaeilge you couldn’t understand, wielding a long iron spear.

With a swift, brutal motion, he drove it into the side of the closest boar, the beast shrieking before it collapsed under its own weight.

The last one lunged—but Remmick was quicker.

He pulled a long dagger from his belt, spun, and plunged it into the animal’s neck with a roar.

Silence fell.

You stood trembling, frozen in place as the smell of blood and earth filled the air.

Remmick tossed the dagger aside and rushed to you, grabbing your shoulders, eyes wide and frantic.

“Ye hurt?!” he asked breathlessly, voice high with worry, his accent thick. “Ye hit?! Ye... ye bleed?! Say!”

You couldn’t speak.

Your whole body shook as he cupped your face in his large hands, his thumb brushing mud and tears from your cheeks, scanning you for wounds.

From the trees, his father called out in rapid Gaelic, his voice urgent with concern.

“Tá sí ceart go leor?! Remmick?! Tá an cailín ceart go leor?!”

“Is she okay? Remmick?! Is the girl okay?!”

Remmick glanced back and shouted, "Tá sí go breá! Tá sí... Tá sí go breá, Da!”

"She's fine! She's... She's fine, Da!"

Then he turned back to you, softer now, his forehead nearly brushing yours, eyes searching yours for something solid.

That was when the tears came.

Not just from the fear.

Not just from the boars.

But from everything—all of it.

The confusion, the loneliness, the ache, the loss, the terrifying truth that maybe, just maybe, there was no going back.

That you would never again see Annie’s kind eyes or feel her comforting presence.

Your knees gave.

Remmick caught you.

He sank to the ground with you in his arms, holding you against him without a word.

His hand moved slowly down your back, grounding you, his other still curled protectively around your shoulders.

You wept into his chest, letting it all fall out there in the tall grass and blood and fading light.

And Remmick held you like it meant something.

Like you meant something.

Like you weren't a stranger... not really.

Not anymore.

.

.

.

"I need your help to find my way home."

The words hung in the air like smoke, soft but heavy, as if they'd taken form from the fire and curled their way to the rafters above.

You stood tall, shoulders squared despite the tremor of nerves coursing beneath your skin.

You had placed Rían gently into the worn wooden chair by the hearth, the one that creaked under his weight and leaned ever so slightly to the left.

He gave you a slow, blinking look—curious, kind—but clearly unsure of what you meant.

Remmick stood to your side, arms crossed but face wide open, ready, willing.

You turned to him, gesturing as you spoke again, firmer this time.

"M'not meant to be here. I don’t belong. This place—this time—s'not mine."

You pressed a hand to your chest, to the cotton of your dress, to the steady drumbeat of a heart filled with urgency.

"I come from 1932. Mississippi. It’s... a long way from here. More than miles."

Remmick’s brow furrowed, gaze flickering with focus as he attempted to wrap his tongue around the bridge between your words and his father’s understanding.

He turned, and in his rough Gaeilge, he translated what he could.

There were stutters and pauses, fumbling phrases, but the meaning seemed to land, however softly.

Rían’s bushy brows knitted together.

He listened, looked at you, then back to his son.

He spoke in a slow, weighted rhythm, his words deep and grave, like wind rustling through old trees.

Remmick listened, then translated for you again:

“He want to know... this what ye want?”

You hesitated, but only for a breath.

“It is,” you said, voice dipping low. “I don’t know what brought me here. But I know I can’t stay. Not for long."

You glanced down at your feet.

"This place... your time... it’s dangerous for a girl like me. One wrong turn an' I might not make it out alive.”

Rían’s expression softened at that.

He rubbed a calloused hand over his beard, then leaned forward to speak again.

His voice was gentle, almost fatherly.

“He say... there home here for ye. Ye stay... live here. Ye been good help.”

Remmick offered a faint smile as he added that last part, a teasing lilt in his voice that made your heart pinch.

You smiled sadly.

“I’ll never forget the kindness you and your father have shown me... But I need to try.”

Rían looked at you a long while after that.

His eyes, the same soft shade of wild brown as his son’s, flickered with something hard to name.

Then he nodded, once, slow as the sun setting over the hills.

He spoke again, his voice like a quiet wind, and Remmick translated:

“He say... take Saoirse... mare. She sturdy. Go to Galway. There more people... might know magic. He say... take three days. Maybe four if rain.”

Tears pricked at the your eyes, sudden and uninvited.

Not of sadness, but of relief.

Of gratitude.

“Give ye ten shillings,” Remmick added, “an' food... for travel. Not much, but get ye goin'.”

You stepped forward and took Rían’s hand in both of yours.

You pressed it gently, reverently.

“Thank you,” you whispered, hoping it translated without needing words.

There was a beat of silence, soft and still as snowfall. And then—

“Aye... rachaidh mé.”

"Aye... I will go."

Remmick's voice rang out suddenly, loud enough to make both you and Rían start.

He was standing straighter now, chin lifted slightly, hands clenched at his sides.

Rían turned sharply, speaking rapid Gaeilge, sharp and low.

The exchange grew heated almost immediately—Remmick fired back in kind, his hands slicing through the air as he gestured.

To the road.

To the hills.

To you.

Though you didn’t catch a single word, you knew what it was about.

The worry on Rían’s face, the insistence on Remmick’s.

You remained back, watching as son and father argued not with hatred, but with care.

It wasn’t about whether you deserved protection—it was about what it might cost.

Finally, after a long silence and a deep sigh that seemed to roll from the bones outward, Rían gave a quiet, reluctant nod.

Remmick grinned, bright and boyish, throwing a triumphant arm around your shoulders.

“I come wit' ye,” he said, the warmth of his body pressed close.

You laughed, a sound both sweet and uncertain, “Ya sure? This won't be fun.”

He winked, “Ye forget... m'a funny man.”

You smiled wide, and in your chest, that flicker of hope burst into a flame.

The fire popped in the hearth behind you.

The old floorboards groaned beneath your feet.

A new chapter had begun.

One step closer to home.

.

.

III. Ireland - 1504

The week passed in a hush of slow sunrises and whispering dusk, your body never quite relaxing but no longer bristling like a hunted animal.

Rían and Remmick gave you space—measured, respectful space—and offered you food before every question.

And when you didn't answer, they didn't press.

Rían gave you a pair of his wife's old dresses, plain but soft with wear, still faintly smelling of cedarwood and dried chamomile.

You had changed into them with trembling hands, unused to the generosity, much less from men like them.

Though, in the quiet rhythm of farm life, you found tasks to keep busy—mucking stalls, carrying water, folding laundry.

And every day you learned a little more of Remmick.

His quiet focus.

The way he ran a hand through his wind tangled curls when he was thinking.

The way he spoke to animals like they understood his every word.

He was kind, disarmingly so, in a way that made you feel both safer and more uncertain.

By the seventh day, you both sat on a grassy knoll overlooking the hills, the sky a cathedral of pale blue stretched wide above.

Goats bleated lazily around you, chewing cud as if the world revolved around them.

You sat cross-legged, plucking at clover stems while Remmick leaned back on his elbows, watching the clouds drift.

"Goat," you said slowly, pointing to a nearby nanny with a lopsided ear. "This one... goat."

He chuckled, nodding, "Gabhar," he corrected gently, the word thick in his Irish brogue.

You wrinkled your nose, "Gaw-ver?"

"Aye... near enough," he grinned. "This?"

He pointed to the sky.

"Spéir."

"Spare?" you echoed, frowning.

Remmick laughed again—full and unguarded.

"Close. Spay-erh."

You both laughed, the sound of it tumbling across the field, shifting along with the breeze as you adjusted the collar of your borrowed dress.

Where Remmick finally caught sight of the stone lying flat against your chest.

His gaze sharpened.

"What that?" he asked, softly.

You blinked, following his line of sight.

The moment your fingers brushed the cool, glassy surface of the crystal, breath caught in your throat.

You had forgotten it entirely.

The stone remained the same as it was—pale green with thin ropes of white and gold threaded through it, like frozen lightning in a river stone.

"This!" you gasped, clutching it like a lifeline. "This is what brought me here!"

Remmick's brows pulled together, "What ye mean?"

"It's—it did something! I was wearin'' it when I fell!"

You leapt up, heart racing.

"Take me back! To the water! Where you found me! Please!"

He stood too, startled by your urgency, "Aye. Come."

The two of you moved fast down the hill, boots and bare feet crunching through the fallen leaves.

The wind picked up, and clouds clustered along the edges of the sun as you reached the nearby pond.

The water lay still, indifferent, like it had no recollection of the trouble it caused you just a week earlier.

You didn't hesitate—rushing into the shallow, necklace clenched in your fist, eyes wild.

"C'mon... c'mon!" you begged the air, the sky, the breeze. "Take me back!"

Then you ran—sprinted and dove straight into the deeper middle of the pond, arms outstretched.

"Fanacht!" Remmick shouted. "What ye doin'?!"

With a splash, you disappeared beneath the surface.

Two minutes go by.

Is this normal?

Four minutes go by.

Somethin's wrong...

Five minutes go by.

Alright.

He cursed under his breath, kicking off his boots before diving in after you.

The water was cold and green and full of weeds that tangled around his ankles like reaching hands.

It wasn't long before he found you thrashing, eyes wide and furious and panicked, gasping through gritted teeth.

You swung at the water, as if you could beat it into letting you go.

Without hesitation, he swam toward you, snatching you up by the waist before scrambling for the surface, shoving you up ahead of him.

"No!" you gasped, panting heavily. "I'm not goin' back! Why won't it work?!"

Remmick surfaced beside you, coughing, "Ye drown! Stop—stop—stop movin'—"

He caught your wrists gently but firmly, dragging you back to the bank, soaked and sputtering.

You pushed at him, attempting to shove the man away, but sadly lacked the strength.

But when you arrived, for a moment, you both laid in the shallows—heaving—dripping and stunned.

Remmick gave you a sidelong look and shook his head, amused in spite of himself.

"That... new."

You glared, breath hitching, "S'not funny."

"No," he said, softer now, plucking a pondweed from your hair before tossing it to the side. "No... s'not."

Pausing, you sat in silence, allowing the water to lap at your knees as you stared at the moss-covered surface, the necklace cold and heavy.

Though... the silence didn't last.

You turned your face away from him, shoulders trembling—then, the first sob broke loose, ragged and raw.

And once it started, it didn't stop.

You wept with your whole body, like something inside you had been cracked open, flooding outward in waves you could no longer hold back.

It wasn't just the necklace.

It wasn't just the pond.

It was Annie's face—the softness of her laughter, the levity in her smile.

It was your mother's voice, low and warm like honey in a mug.

It was the smell of your kitchen on Sunday afternoons, the thumping feet of little sisters and brothers across the wood floor.

It was every familiar, sacred, mundane thing that stitched your world together—and the realization that it all might be gone.

Forever.

You folded over your knees in the shallows, fingers clenched in the fabric of your borrowed—now soaked—dress, your breathing hiccuping between sobs.

Remmick knelt beside you, his wet hair plastered to his brow, chest rising and falling.

He didn't speak right away.

He couldn't—not in any way you would understand.

But he could feel it.

The grief.

The gravity.

With cautious hands, he reached out, curling an arm around your shoulders, hesitant at first—then firmer when you didn't pull away.

His shirt clung to him, smelling of algae and riverweed, though now pressed against you—with your close proximity—warm, solid, and real.

"Tá mé anseo," he murmured, voice low.

"I'm here."

You didn't understand his words, but the tone—soft, steady—unlocked something else, and you turned to him, forehead pressed in the hollow of his shoulder.

Remmick held you, held you like you might fade away, like the world might take you just as quick as it dropped you in his pond.

He hadn't meant to care.

But watching you crumble cracked something loose inside him, too.

After a while, the sobs dulled to sniffles, your breaths stuttering and quiet.

Your voice, when it came, was barely audible.

"I wanna go home..."

Remmick exhaled through his nose, nodding slowly, careful not to overstep.

"Home," he repeated, gently tapping your chest bone with his knuckle. "Baile."

You looked up at him, eyes swollen and filled with red.

"Baile?" you whispered.

"Aye... baile," he smiled faintly, before taking your hand and pressing it to his chest, just above his heart. "I help ye... find yers."

Your lips parted—like you wanted to ask how, like you wanted to believe him but didn't dare.

But you saw it in his face.

He meant it.

The way his brows drew together, the way his eyes met yours with quiet intensity.

The ache in your chest shifted, just slightly.

And then, unbidden, something broke through the sorrow...

A smile.

Small, unsure, but real.

The first one he'd seen from you—full and open, not dulled by caution or exhaustion.

It lit your features in a way the sun never could.

Remmick blinked, stunned still for a breath.

Then he smiled too—wider, warmer—surprised by how much it mattered.

For a long moment, neither of you looked away.

The breeze tugged gently at the grass.

The pond lapped softly at your legs.

In the spaces between the wind and quiet, something shifted.

Something silent yet undeniable.

You both felt it.

Neither said it.

And so you sat like that, shoulder to shoulder in the golden rush of early evening, the word baile echoing between you two—something to hold onto, something to search for.

Not yet a promise.

But maybe, just maybe a start to one.

.

.

.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting amber light across the stone walls of the cottage.

Shadows danced in a slow rhythm along the beams, and the scent of peat smoke clung to the damp edges of your clothes as you sat side by side on a sheepskin rug.

You held your hands out to the flame, fingers trembling slightly with a lingering chill, sleeves damp at the cuffs.

Your cheeks felt flushed—not from the cold anymore, but from the sheer emotional weight of everything that had come before.

The warmth of the fire.

The softness of the wool.

The stillness.

It all sank into your bones.

Remmick sat beside you, closer than he normally would, his limbs folded awkwardly, trying not to crowd you, but not wanting to be far either.

His hair was still wet, curling at his brows and sticking at the nape of his neck.

He cast a glance your way—one of quiet study.

"Ye..." he began, slowly, thickly, reaching for the right words.

He pressed his palm lightly against his face and pointed to you.

"Yer skin."

You blinked, surprised, "My skin?"

He nodded, miming his hand back and forth, comparing yours to his.

Pale, faintly freckled.

Yours, warm brown, deeper in the firelight.

His brow furrowed—not with distaste, but with unfiltered wonder.

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

"I'm Black," you said, gesturing to yourself. "My family, too. S'a race... a people."

He looked thoughtful.

"Blak," he echoed clumsily, tasting the word. "Black."

Then, more earnestly, he leaned forward, as if the fire between you couldn’t burn bright enough for the questions gathering in his chest.

"From where?" he asked, halting but hopeful, voice rounded with his accent.

He nodded up to the ceiling.

"Stars?"

You laughed before you could stop yourself—soft and warm.

"No," you shook your head. "Not the stars."

His mouth tilted up, pleased he'd made you laugh.

"M'from Mississippi," you said, pointing outward. "Far. Across the sea. Don't even think its been discovered yet."

His eyes widened slightly, lips parted in marvel, "Missus... ippy."

He toyed with the word, testing it out.

"All people like ye, there?"

"Not all," you said, amused, hugging your knees to your chest. "S'a mix. Lots of people. All kinds. But yes—there's lots like me."

Remmick nodded, fascinated.

"Álainn..." he said suddenly, quietly, eyes trained on the flesh of your hand.

You raised a brow, curious.

"...Beautiful."

Your heart skipped, breath catching faintly—but he was already glancing at the fire again, cheeks tinged faintly pink in the glow.

He scratched the back of his neck, awkwardly, then gestured to you again.

"Yer words... ye speak soft."

His hand fluttered, rising from the rug.

"Like bird."

You smiled, charmed by his effort to bridge the space between.

"An' you sound like your chewin' a buncha marbles," you teased, gently.

He quirked a brow.

"Mahr-bells?"

He chuckled, deep in his chest—a low sheepish sound that made your smile widen.

There was something gently unfolding between you two, like a page turning itself over slowly, line by line.

You could feel it in the way he looked at you—earnestly, openly, as if every part was worth puzzling out.

And you, for your part, found yourself studying him, too.

His hands, rough from work.

The light in his eyes when he smiled.

His voice when it dropped soft and low.

Remmick’s brows pinched slightly with thought, then lifted as another question took shape on his tongue.

“Ye… what ye eat? In… Missus-ippy?” he raised a brow expectantly.

You grinned, "'Bout anything, I 'spose. Fried fish. Greens. Beans."

He blinked slowly, "Fish... fried?"

Leaning forward, he seemed faintly stunned.

"In oil. Hot oil. You dip it in flour and spices and—well, s'a lot to explain," you mimed tossing something in a pan, puffing your cheeks like sizzling grease. "Crispy. Delicious."

He looked nearly reverent, "Feast o' kings."

Tilting your head, your own curiosity bloomed bright in your chest.

You glanced toward the closed door, then back at him.

“What about you? What're you and your father doin' all the way out here?”

Remmick followed your gaze, then looked down for a moment, fiddling with a frayed thread on his trousers.

“We farm,” he said. “Sheep. Oats. Horses.”

He glanced back up at you, expression unreadable for a moment.

“Was more of us. Once.”

You softened, “Your family?”

He gave a slow nod, “Me mother. Sister. Gone long time.”

He didn’t say how, and you didn’t press.

Instead, your voice dropped into something gentler, “Do you ever... get lonely?”

Remmick looked back at the fire, the flames flickering in his eyes like thoughts not fully spoken.

“Aye...” he admitted. “S'quiet here. Good to think.”

You nodded slowly, letting the weight of his words settle between them.

The isolation of this place—it was beautiful, yes, but stark.

The hills rolled like sleeping giants, the clouds drifted like ghosts.

And you could understand how—how silence could become a companion.

A weight and a comfort all at once.

Remmick turned to you again, softer now.

“Ye lonely?” he asked, voice quiet. “In yer big place?”

You hesitated.

“Yes... an' no,” you nodded. “But... it’s different. Louder, sometimes. More people."

A shrug left your shoulders.

"But... no one really sees you.”

He watched you closely.

“I see ye,” Remmick said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Your breath caught—not from shock, but from the strange, surprising sincerity of it.

Then came the creak of the wooden door.

Remmick’s father entered with a rush of cold air and mud-lined boots, wiping his hands on a rag.

His eyes found you both instantly, and, though his expression was not unkind, there was something brimming just beneath it—gentle, but firm.

“Iad ar fad sa pháirc fós, Remmick,” the older man said, nodding toward the fields. “Tá an ghaoth ag ardú. Níor mhaith liom iad a bheith scaipthe ar an gcnoc roimh dhorchadas.”

"They're still in the field, Remmick. The wind is rising. I don’t want them scattered on the hill before dark.”

Remmick stood at once, listening carefully before translating, turning back toward you.

“Da,” he said. “Say... goats in field. Big wind. Must herd ‘em in.”

You began to rise as well, brushing your skirts, but he stopped you with a raised hand.

“Ye... stay,” he said, motioning toward the fire. “Warm. I be back.”

He hesitated.

“We talk more, aye?”

You paused, then nodded, smiling again—softer this time.

“Yes... we talk more.”

Remmick lingered for a beat longer than he needed to.

Then he turned and left, door swinging shut behind him with a quiet thud.

You sat back down slowly, hands wrapped around the tin cup he’d left you earlier, still warm.

Outside, you could hear his voice calling out, sharp and sure in the Gaeilge tongue, echoing across the field.

The goats bleated in reply, wind curling around the cottage like a curious spirit.

And inside, you watched the fire flicker, heart just a little steadier than before.

The air still tasted of sadness, of aching distance—but under it, something else was beginning to stir.

Not hope... not yet.

But maybe the beginning of it.

.

.