Sasha didn't wait.
The moment Kian ended the call, something in her had already decided—she needed to see him. Not later. Not after thinking it through.
Now.
The drive felt longer than it should have.
Not because of traffic.
Because her mind wouldn't settle.
Every red light stretched. Every turn felt slightly unfamiliar. Like the city itself had shifted just enough to disorient her.
Or maybe—
It was her.
By the time she pulled up outside his grandmother's house, the sky had dulled into that strange in-between hour where evening hadn't fully arrived, but daylight had already given up.
The house stood exactly as she remembered.
Still.
Watching.
Sasha stepped out of the car slowly, her gaze instinctively scanning the property.
Something about this place always felt…
Layered.
Like it held more than what it showed.
The door opened before she knocked.
The butler gave a slight nod.
"Upstairs."
No questions.
No hesitation.
Sasha didn't like that.
She didn't like how expected she was becoming.
The hallway felt colder this time.
Quieter.
As if even the air was listening.
She reached the familiar green door and didn't wait.
She pushed it open.
Kian was already there.
Standing near the window.
His back to her.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then—
"You felt it too," he said.
Not turning.
Sasha stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind her.
"Felt what?" she asked, though she already knew.
Kian finally turned.
And something in her stilled.
He looked the same.
But not entirely.
There was something behind his eyes now.
Not confusion.
Not fear.
Depth.
Too much of it.
"Things coming back," he said quietly. "Things that don't belong to this version of me."
Sasha's grip tightened slightly on her bag.
"…what kind of things?"
Kian hesitated.
Not because he didn't want to answer.
Because he didn't know how.
"A room," he said slowly. "Laughter. Voices I recognize but don't remember meeting."
A pause.
"And a jar."
That word landed between them like a weight.
Sasha exhaled sharply, looking away for a moment.
"Yeah," she murmured. "That."
Silence stretched.
Heavy.
Shared.
"I found something," she said finally.
Kian's gaze sharpened slightly. "What?"
She reached into her bag and pulled out the folded paper.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Like it mattered how she held it.
Kian's eyes locked onto it immediately.
Something in his expression shifted.
Not recognition.
Not fully.
But close enough to matter.
"What is that?" he asked.
Sasha stepped closer.
"Something that shouldn't exist anymore."
She unfolded it slowly.
The paper didn't resist.
But it didn't feel passive either.
Kian moved closer instinctively, his focus narrowing.
"What am I looking at?" he asked.
Sasha tilted the paper toward the light.
The faint symbol was still there.
But now—
The impressions beneath it were clearer.
Not fully visible.
But forming.
"My handwriting," she said quietly.
Kian frowned. "That's not possible."
"I know."
A pause.
Then—
"I don't remember writing it," she added.
That changed everything.
Kian reached out slowly.
Then stopped.
Just before touching it.
Because something in him—
Warned him.
Sasha noticed.
"Don't," she said softly.
He looked at her. "Why?"
She swallowed.
"Because I think if you do… something's going to come back."
Kian didn't pull his hand away.
But he didn't move closer either.
"…and that's a bad thing?" he asked.
Sasha met his eyes.
And for the first time since she arrived—
There was no hesitation in her voice.
"I don't think we get to choose what comes back."
That settled between them.
Cold.
Real.
Behind them, a soft sound broke the silence.
Neither of them had heard the door open.
Kian's grandmother stood just inside the room.
Watching.
"You're learning faster this time," she said.
Sasha turned sharply.
"This time?"
The old woman stepped forward slowly, her gaze moving between them.
"Yes," she said simply.
Kian's jaw tightened slightly. "You said this already happened."
"I said versions of it have," she corrected.
Sasha's pulse picked up.
"Then tell us what we missed."
The old woman's eyes settled on the paper in Sasha's hand.
Her expression didn't change.
But something in the room did.
"That," she said quietly, "is not just a memory."
Sasha's fingers tightened around it.
"Then what is it?"
A pause.
Then—
"It's a return."
The word echoed.
Not loudly.
But deeply.
Kian exhaled slowly. "You said the system was divided. That the jar separated things."
"It did."
"Then why is this coming back now?"
The old woman's gaze lifted to meet his.
Steady.
Unwavering.
"Because one part was never sealed properly."
Silence dropped hard into the room.
Sasha's voice came out quieter than she intended.
"…which part?"
The old woman looked at her.
Not unkindly.
But not gently either.
"Desire."
The word settled into Sasha's chest like something waking.
Her breath caught.
Because suddenly—
Everything made sense.
And nothing did.
The paper in her hand pulsed faintly.
Warm.
Alive.
Kian noticed it too.
His voice dropped.
"Sasha…"
She didn't look at him.
Couldn't.
Because something inside her was shifting.
Not painfully.
Not violently.
But undeniably.
Like something that had always been there—
Was finally being allowed to exist again.
Her grip loosened slightly.
The paper slipped.
Just enough—
To brush against Kian's fingers.
And the moment it did—
Everything stopped.
The room.
The air.
Time itself.
Then—
Something rushed back.
Not into the room.
Into him.
Kian staggered slightly, his breath catching sharply.
Images—flashes—voices—
Too fast.
Too many.
Too familiar.
Sasha stepped back, panic flickering across her face.
"I told you not to touch it—"
But Kian wasn't hearing her.
Because for the first time—
He wasn't just remembering.
He was reliving.
And somewhere deep within that rush—
A voice surfaced.
Not Sasha's.
Not his grandmother's.
Not anyone present.
But known.
"You chose her before. You will choose her again."
Kian's eyes snapped open.
Sharp.
Unfamiliar.
And when he looked at Sasha—
Something in his expression had changed.
Not completely.
Not permanently.
But enough.
Recognition.
Not of who she was now.
But of who she had always been—
To him.
The room settled slowly.
Time resumed.
Air returned.
But nothing felt the same.
Because something had crossed back over.
And this time—
It hadn't asked for permission.