Say I Love You When We Meet Again

The dream came again, as it had a thousand times before, but never with such visceral, heart-stopping clarity. Amber skies, impossibly vast and aching with the melancholy of a perpetual sunset, stretched across an endless golden field. The wheat swayed in a gentle, hypnotic rhythm, each stalk whispering secrets against its neighbor in a breeze that felt less like air and more like the very heartbeat of the world. Her bare feet, always bare in this place, brushed against warm, rich earth, and she could feel the latent life thrumming beneath the soil.

It was a place of profound peace, and yet, of a sorrow so deep it was woven into the light itself. At the edge of the horizon, a figure stood, a stark silhouette against the burning sun. Tall, impossibly so, and cloaked in shadows that seemed to bleed from his form, his arms were outstretched not in welcome, but in a plea that was centuries old. As she drew closer, compelled by a force she could not name, his features resolved from the glare. His face was etched with an anguish that was both ancient and immediate. And his eyes... silver-gray, like moonlight on a frozen lake, locked onto hers with a desperation that made her chest seize, a physical pain that tore a silent sob from her throat. His lips parted, and his voice, when it came, was not a sound but a feeling, a vibration that cracked through the idyllic scene like fractured glass. "Say I love you... when we meet again." The words were a command, a prayer, and a epitaph, all at once. Amara Valencia jolted upright in her narrow bed, a gasp strangling in her throat. The faded floral quilt was tangled around her legs, her thin cotton nightgown damp with a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the warm spring night. Her heart was a frantic, panicked drum against her ribs, its echo the only sound in the pre-dawn silence of her small apartment. Her fingers, trembling violently, clutched at the sun-bleached cotton sheets, grounding herself in their mundane reality. Pale blue light, the ghost of the coming morning, filtered through the window, painting everything in a monochrome, lonely hue. The details of the dream were already receding, fleeing like mist before the sun, but the emotional wreckage they left behind was immense and familiar. A deep, hollow ache settled in the center of her being, an echo of a loss she could not name, for a person she had never met. It was the feeling of a door slammed shut somewhere in the distant corridors of her soul, a finality that left her grieving every single time. She had always known she was different. Not in the obvious, noticeable ways. She wasn't particularly striking or strange. With her soft brown curls that refused to be tamed, her delicate, unassuming features, and a quiet, observant demeanor, she blended in easily, a face in a crowd, a whisper in a noisy room. She was Amara Valencia, aspiring graphic designer, dutiful granddaughter, reliable friend. But beneath that carefully constructed normalcy, Amara lived with a constant, humming undercurrent of not-quite-belonging. It was a feeling that she was a puzzle piece from a different box, that she was waiting for a cue, for a sign, for someone without ever knowing the reason why. Her grandmother, Estelle, with her wise, crinkled eyes and hands that smelled of soil and lavender, called it her "old soul." She'd soothe Amara after a particularly bad dream, stroking her hair and murmuring, "You've just lived more lives than most, my darling. Your heart remembers what your mind has forgotten." But Amara, even as a child, wasn't sure it was that simple. It wasn't just a feeling of age. It was a feeling of fracture. She couldn't explain the vivid, Technicolor dreams that felt more like memories. She couldn't explain the half-remembered sensations the smell of gunpowder and rain, the feel of rough wool against her cheek, the taste of bitter tea on a cold morning that would ambush her at the most random moments. She couldn't explain the way certain places in Velinora City, certain cobblestone alleys or forgotten gardens, would make her breath catch, making her feel with absolute certainty that she had been there before... and that, in some way she couldn't grasp, she had died there. Shaking off the residual chill of the dream, Amara forced herself through her morning routine. A cold shower to shock the lingering dread from her system, strong black coffee that did little to steady her nerves, and the careful selection of her clothes a simple, professional navy-blue dress and a cream-colored cardigan. Today was too important to be derailed by phantoms. Velinora City shimmered under a late spring sun as she made her way through the Rosehill District toward the sleek transit line that would carry her downtown. The streets here were still gently waking up, holding onto the last vestiges of their village-like charm amidst the encroaching modern city. Shopkeepers were flipping hand-painted signs to 'Open,' the heavenly scent of fresh bread and pastries curled out from the open door of Madame Renauld's bakery, and the rhythmic, mournful hum of an old violinist playing a familiar folk tune on the corner near the bronze swan fountain filled the air. It was a scene of perfect, peaceful normality, a balm to her frayed nerves. Amara clutched her leather-bound sketchbook under one arm and the strap of her worn satchel under the other. Inside the satchel was her entire future, neatly organized in a portfolio. Today was her first day at Ardent Corp the prestigious, ultra-competitive design internship she'd fought tooth and nail for, beating out hundreds of other applicants. It was supposed to be her big break. Her ticket out of quiet anonymity, a chance to prove she was more than just a girl with too-vivid dreams and a nameless sadness. But as she stepped onto the gleaming silver train, she couldn't shake the oppressive sense that something immense was looming on the horizon. The familiar feeling of waiting was intensifying, coiling in her stomach like a spring. The air itself felt charged, thick with potential energy. Everything, her entire life, was about to change. She knew it with a certainty that terrified her. Ardent Corp towered above the rest of the city's skyline like a cold, magnificent cathedral of glass and ambition. Where the buildings in Rosehill were warm brick and aged wood, this was all sharp angles and reflective surfaces, a monument to power and progress. The lobby was a study in intimidating opulence: acres of veined white marble floor so polished she could see her own anxious reflection, a sleek, abstract modern sculpture of twisted chrome that dominated the center of the space, and a sterile, expensive scent of lemon-tinged leather and crisp citrus that hung in the perfectly climate-controlled air. Everyone moved with a fierce, unswerving purpose: sharp stiletto heels clicking a staccato rhythm, low, urgent voices discussing mergers and acquisitions, phones and tablets glued to hands and ears. She approached the vast security desk, her small voice almost swallowed by the cavernous space. "Amara Valencia. I'm here for the internship program." The guard, impeccably uniformed, scanned a list, found her name, and handed her a temporary badge. She clutched the plastic card like a lifeline, her thumb tracing the letters. Amara Valencia. Intern, Design Division. It felt both unreal and like the most real thing that had ever happened to her. The elevator was a silent, mirrored capsule that shot skyward with a stomach-lurching speed. She was alone, confronted by a dozen reflections of herself each version looking just as wide-eyed, nervous, and out of place as the real one. She smoothed down her dress, took a steadying breath, and tried to project a confidence she did not feel. When the doors slid open with a near-silent whoosh, she stepped into a different world. The top-floor executive suite was a study in minimalist luxury and profound silence. There were no clacking keyboards, no ringing phones, no hushed conversations. The walls were panels of dark, polished stone, and one entire side of the floor was made of floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing a breathtaking, dizzying sweep of Velinora City laid out like a map below. The air was still and cool. At the far end of the vast, open space, a figure stood silhouetted against the immense window, his back to her, perfectly still, watching the city. He didn't move as she entered, her soft-soled shoes making no sound on the plush charcoal carpet. The silence stretched, becoming oppressive. She felt like an intruder in a sacred space. Amara cleared her throat, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet. "Mr. Ardent?" He turned. And the world stopped. Their eyes met. Her breath caught, strangled in her throat. All the air was sucked from the room. The meticulously designed office, the panoramic view, the very ground beneath her feet it all blurred into a meaningless smear of color. All that existed were his eyes. Silver-gray. The exact shade from her dreams. The same stormy, moonlit color. They were colder here, harder, unreadable... but the shape, the intensity, the very soul behind them was devastatingly, impossibly familiar. It was a recognition that hit her not in her mind, but in her bones, in her blood, a seismic tremor that tore through her chest and left her dizzy. For a heart-stopping moment, she was back in the golden field, the wheat whispering, the ache of loss a physical wound. Leo Ardent took a slow, deliberate step forward, his face a mask of perfect, composed neutrality. But his eyes... his eyes were doing something else entirely. They were scanning her face with an intensity that was almost violent, drinking in every detail as if he were a man dying of thirst and she was an oasis. "You're late," he said. But his voice wasn't irritated or accusatory. It was... distant. hollow. Shaken. Like he'd just seen a ghost and was struggling to maintain his footing in the real world. "I-" She shook herself, forcing her brain to form words, to engage with reality. "I'm sorry. The elevator, the security desk it took longer than I" He waved a dismissive hand, a gesture so effortlessly commanding it silenced her immediately. But he didn't stop staring. His gaze was a physical weight, pinning her in place. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could see it hammering against the fabric of her dress. The question rose from the deepest, most instinctual part of her, bypassing all filters of professionalism and propriety. "Have we..." she began, her voice barely a whisper. "Have we met before?" It was a insane thing to ask the CEO of a billion-dollar corporation during an internship interview. It was the question of a lovestruck fan or a complete lunatic. But she couldn't help it. The words were torn from her. A muscle in Leo's jaw tightened, a minute flicker of tension that was the only crack in his impeccable armor. His eyes finally broke away from hers, glancing out at the cityscape before returning, their coldness firmly back in place. "No," he said, his voice now clipped, definitive, absolute. "We haven't." He turned his back on her, walking back toward the window, effectively shutting down the line of inquiry and any further intimacy. "Let's begin." The interview that followed was a surreal and agonizing blur. He asked her questions about her design philosophy, her technical skills, her career goals. She answered on autopilot, her voice sounding strange and tinny to her own ears. She showed him her portfolio, her hands trembling as she laid out the pages on his vast, empty desk. He nodded, made non-committal sounds, his eyes on her work but his presence still intensely, unnervingly focused on her. She tried to concentrate, to be brilliant, to be the promising designer she knew she could be, but the feeling of dizzying, impossible familiarity was a deafening roar in her ears, drowning out everything else. By the time he concluded the interview with a curt, "Human Resources will be in touch," and dismissed her, her head was spinning, a vortex of confusion and profound disquiet. She found a blessedly empty bathroom on a lower floor and locked herself in a stall, gripping the cold metal partition until her knuckles turned white, trying to steady her ragged breathing. What is happening to me? The question was a silent scream in her mind. Who is he? Later that evening, the surreal encounter haunting her every thought, Amara found herself sitting on the worn wooden steps of her grandmother's flower shop, "Estelle's Blooms." The familiar, sweet scent of jasmine and damp earth was a comfort. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, watching as the sun dipped below the rooflines of Rosehill, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The bell on the shop door jingled, and Estelle emerged, wiping her hands on her dirt-smudged apron. Her kind eyes, the same soft brown as Amara's, immediately saw the turmoil in her granddaughter's face. "You look like you saw a ghost, my love," Estelle said, her voice warm with concern. Amara let out a shaky breath. "Maybe I did." Estelle settled her sturdy frame onto the step beside her, the wood creaking familiarly. "The dream again?" Amara nodded slowly, not looking at her. "But this time, Abuela... this time it wasn't just a dream. I met him." Estelle went very still. "In real life?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral. "I think so. I looked into his eyes, and I... I knew him. I've never seen him before in my life, but some part of me recognized him. And I swear..." she finally turned to face her grandmother, her own eyes wide with fear and wonder, "I swear he knew me, too. Just for a second, before he shut it down." Estelle's expression shifted subtly, the lines around her eyes deepening. It wasn't just curiosity now. It was fear. Or maybe a dawning, dreadful recognition. Amara frowned. "What is it? You've heard of him, haven't you?" Estelle stood up quickly, a sudden decisiveness in her movements. "Come inside, Amara. Right now. There's something... there's something I should have shown you a long time ago." Puzzled and her heart beginning to thump with a new kind of anticipation, Amara followed her grandmother through the cluttered, fragrant shop, past buckets of fresh flowers and shelves of potting soil, to the narrow door that led to the attic. They climbed the creaking stairs together, dust motes dancing in the slants of light from the single, bare bulb Estelle switched on. The attic was a time capsule, filled with the scent of old paper, dried flowers, and memories. Estelle went straight to a corner and, with a grunt of effort, pulled out a small, weathered wooden trunk, its leather straps brittle with age. Her hands, usually so steady, fumbled with the brass latch. Inside, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, was a stack of old drawings and paintings. Estelle began to lay them out on the floor. There were portraits of severe-looking men and women in clothing from another century, landscapes of a Velinora that no longer existed, and delicate sketches of flowers. And then, she pulled out one last piece, larger than the others, its edges frayed, the canvas faded and cracked with age. It was a portrait of a young man. He was dressed in the formal, high-collared coat of the late 19th century, his dark hair swept back from a high forehead. His expression was solemn, intense, and carried a weight of sadness that seemed to transcend time. And his eyes... Amara's hand flew to her mouth, a gasp tearing from her lips. She stumbled backward, her legs suddenly weak. Silver-gray. The same piercing, solemn gaze. The same unmistakable features, younger, less hardened by modern cynicism, but undeniably, irrevocably his. "It's him," she whispered, her voice trembling uncontrollably. "That's Leo Ardent." Estelle exhaled a shaky breath, her own face pale in the dim light. She looked from the painting to her granddaughter's horrified face, her own eyes filled with a ancient dread. "His name," she said softly, her voice barely audible, "was Leontius Ardent. And this painting, my darling child, was done by my great-grandmother... over one hundred and fifty years ago."