Anaya didn't hear a word of the lecture.
Not the names of long-dead poets.
Not the whispered giggles of classmates swooning over their "dark academia dream."
Not even the scraping of pens across paper.
Because all she heard—was him.
His voice.
That voice had echoed in her dreams for months.
Soft. Deep. Unrushed.
A sound that curled into the corners of her soul like it belonged there.
She stared at her notebook, blank except for the corner she'd unknowingly torn through with her pen. Her heart was racing too fast. Her breath too shallow.
It was just a coincidence, right?
Just a stranger who looked like a dream.
But then he said it again:
"We'll be exploring the literature of tragic love... the kind that transcends time."
She looked up.
And his gaze met hers.
Not a glance. Not a polite, passing look.
A knowing.
Like he'd already read her story cover to cover.
After Class
"Okay, first of all," Mia hissed, dragging her into the hallway. "What was that? You looked like you saw a ghost!"
Anaya tried to laugh. It came out shaky. "I think I did."
Mia blinked. "Wait, seriously? Who is he? You know him?"
"No," she lied. "Just... déjà vu."
That Evening
The wind pressed against the windows of her dorm like an old song begging to be remembered.
Anaya sat cross-legged on her bed, locket still warm against her chest. She didn't understand why, but since that man—Professor Caelum—walked into her life, the locket felt heavier. Almost alive.
She had tried to open it again after class. Twisted it. Pulled. Pleaded.
Nothing.
It was like the universe still said, not yet.
She checked the date on her phone.
Five days left.
That Night
She dreamed again.
But this time, the dream didn't start with mirrors.
It started with him.
He stood beneath a crimson tree, its leaves falling like dying stars.
She was younger in this memory. A child. Barefoot. Laughing.
And he knelt before her, hands glowing with something warm and golden.
"You must forget me," he whispered.
"No."
"You must. Or you will never live long enough to love me."
Her child-self began to cry.
"But I don't want to forget."
He pressed the glowing light into her chest.
"Then promise me this," he said, his silver eyes dimming. "When the locket opens... come find me before the 21st night."
"Or what?" she whispered.
"Or you'll die again."
The dream shattered like glass.
Next Day – Library
Anaya skipped her first two classes.
She sat in the farthest row of the university library, surrounded by old texts and ink that smelled of forgotten centuries. She'd pulled every book she could find on dreams, reincarnation, cursed lockets—anything that might make sense of this spiraling madness.
None of it helped.
Until a shadow fell across her table.
"Miss Elrose," said that velvet voice.
She looked up.
Professor Caelum.
Standing there like he hadn't just invaded her dream. Like he hadn't just threatened her with death in another lifetime.
"May I?" he asked.
She nodded. Slowly.
He sat across from her, placing a leather-bound book on the table between them.
"The Art of Dying Twice," he said, tapping the cover. "Ever heard of it?"
She shook her head.
"It's not in the library catalog. Nor online. This copy is older than this building."
Anaya stared at the book. Her heart began to race again.
"Why show me this?" she whispered.
He tilted his head. "Because you asked."
"I didn't."
"You did. Last time."
"Last time…?"
He said nothing.
But the way he looked at her—like he was waiting for her to remember—sent shivers up her spine.
"You think I'm going mad," she said, trying to joke.
"I think you're waking up."
"To what?"
He leaned forward, his voice lower now. "To the truth. Of who you are. Of who I am."
She gripped the edge of the table. "And who are you?"
He smiled, but there was sorrow in it. "The one who never lets you die alone."
She stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "Is this... some story you're telling me?"
"No," he said softly. "This is your story. I'm just the one cursed to remember it."
He stood, lifting the book and placing it gently in front of her.
"Read the first page," he said. "You'll know it before you see the words."
And then he left.
Anaya waited until the library was quiet again. She opened the book.
And gasped.
Because on the first page, written in faded ink, was a name she'd never spoken aloud—
Anaya Elrose.
In her own handwriting.