He thought it was their first date; she knew it was their anniversary.


He arrived five minutes early—nervous, excited, palms sweating the way they always did when something felt too good to be real. The restaurant was quiet, dim, lit by amber lanterns that swung gently, as if stirred by some breeze that didn’t exist. He picked the corner table by the window, the one the hostess said was “requested for him,” though he had never been here before.


At least, he thought he hadn’t.


Noah adjusted the collar of his shirt and wiped his hands under the table. Tonight mattered. He didn’t know why—it was only a date with a woman he’d met a week ago at a bookstore—but the weight of it pressed on him. A strange sense of déjà vu tugged at him, whispering This is important. Don’t ruin it.


He rehearsed how he’d greet her. A smile, a gentle compliment, something respectful but warm. She had captivated him instantly the moment they met, with her soft voice and the way her dark eyes seemed to hold both laughter and sorrow. Her name—Elara—lingered in his mind like an echo he couldn't place.


When she finally stepped through the door, the restaurant seemed to still. Even the lanterns swayed slower.


She wore a deep blue dress, simple but elegant, moving around her like water. Her hair fell in soft waves, and her eyes were the same—haunting, familiar, too familiar.


Noah stood, heart pounding, as she approached with an expression he couldn't decipher. Not excitement. Not nervousness.


Something deeper. Older.


“Hi,” he said, giving the smile he’d practiced. “Wow, you look—”


“Elara,” she finished for him. “You always say my name first.”


He blinked in confusion. “I… do?”


A soft, bittersweet smile touched her lips, and she slid into the seat across from him. “Yes. Every time.”


Noah wasn’t sure what that meant, but the way she said it made a strange ache bloom in his chest. Like a memory trying to surface.


He sat again, forcing a laugh. “Well, at least I’m consistent.”


Her gaze softened. “You always have been.”


When the menus came, she didn’t open hers. She just watched him, quietly, intently.


“So…” Noah began, clearing his throat. “I’m glad you wanted to meet again. I’ve been looking forward to tonight.”


Her smile faltered, sadness ghosting across her features. “I know.”


Something was wrong. He didn’t know why he felt that, but he felt it deeply.


“Elara?” Noah asked. “Did I do something? You look… unhappy.”


“I’m not unhappy.” She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his knuckles. A spark shot up his arm—too strong, too real to be imagination. “I’m just… savoring the moment.”


He swallowed. “Because it’s our date?”


Her voice was barely a whisper.


“Because it’s our anniversary.”


The room tilted for a second, the lantern light flickering.


He forced a laugh. “Anniversary? We met last week.”


“No,” she said gently. “You met me last week. I’ve known you much longer.”


Something cold trickled down his spine.


“Okay,” he said slowly, “I don’t really know what that means.”


Elara didn’t answer right away. She looked toward the window, where the dark street outside was washed in pale moonlight. The moon seemed unnaturally large tonight.


Finally she said, “How much do you remember about the night of the storm?”


“What storm?”


Her eyes returned to him, shimmering. “The night the lightning struck the lake. The night you—”


She stopped herself. Started again.


“The night you died.”


Noah’s breath caught.


He waited for her to laugh, to tell him she was joking.


She didn’t.


“Elara,” he said, voice tight, “I’m right here.”


“Yes,” she whispered. “You are. But that doesn’t mean you never died.”


His heart pounded painfully, like it wanted to escape his chest. He pushed back from the table.


“This isn’t funny.”


“I’m not trying to be funny.” She stood too, reaching for him as he moved toward the door. “Please don’t run. You never run. You always want to hear the truth.”


“Well I don’t!” he snapped, louder than he meant to. A few diners glanced their way.


Her voice broke. “You asked me to tell you when you came back this year. You said you wanted to know everything. But every time I start, your mind rejects it.”


He froze.


“This year?”


She nodded.


He forced himself to breathe. “What do you mean ‘this year’?”


Elara stepped closer, her voice trembling. “Noah… this is the seventh time we’ve had this conversation. On this day. At this table.”


He stared at her.


And then something cracked open in his mind.


The lanterns flickered again—once, twice—and with each flicker, flashes of images assaulted him:


Water swallowing him.

Cold, crushing.

Lightning tearing the sky in half.

Elara’s scream.

His hand slipping from hers.

Darkness.


“No,” Noah whispered, stumbling back into the table behind him. “No, that… that’s not possible.”


Elara reached him before he fell, her arms steady around him. The scent of her hair hit him—jasmine and rain—and the familiarity of it almost suffocated him.


“It is,” she whispered. “Every year, on the night you died, your spirit manifests. You’re solid. You breathe, you think, you feel. For one night, you’re alive again.”


He trembled in her embrace.


“And I get you back,” she said, voice breaking. “But only for that night.”


Noah struggled to speak. “Why don’t I remember?”


“You do. Your soul does. But your mind… can’t hold the trauma. Each time you return, you reset.”


He stepped away from her, pacing, hands shaking. “This… this is insane. People don’t come back from the dead. Spirits don’t… they don’t sit in restaurants.”


“They do when they’re bound by love.” Her eyes glistened. “Or tragedy.”


His breathing became uneven. “Why only on that night?”


“Because that was the moment your soul tore free. That’s when the veil opens for you.”


The restaurant air grew colder. The lanterns flickered harder, as if a storm was building around them.


Noah pressed his hands to his temples. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to be dead.”


“I know,” she whispered. “You never do.”


He sank into his chair, feeling something inside him unravel. “What happens at the end of the night?”


Elara didn’t answer.


“Elara.” His voice cracked. “What happens?”


She swallowed, wiping tears from her cheeks.


“You fade,” she said. “You always fade.”


His chest tightened with panic. “How long do I have?”


“Until the last lantern goes out.”


Noah looked up.


One of them was already dark.


“Elara,” he said, panic rising, “I can’t leave you. I don’t want to forget you again.”


She knelt in front of him, holding his hands. “You don’t forget me. Not really. Some part of you always finds its way back. That’s why you return. Love is stronger than death.”


He shook his head. “There has to be a way to stay.”


Her smile was heartbreaking. “I’ve searched for seven years. There isn’t.”


Another lantern flickered, struggled, then died.


“Elara…”


He felt something tug inside him—the first pull of unmaking.


“Come with me,” she whispered, standing and taking his hands. “Let’s spend what time we have by the lake. Where we had our first kiss. Where you told me you wanted forever.”


His throat constricted. “Even though forever didn’t happen?”


She touched his cheek. “Love is its own kind of forever.”


They left the restaurant hand in hand. The night air was cold like the breath of winter, the moon still impossibly large overhead. They walked slowly, neither wanting to reach the end.


At the lake, the water mirrored the moonlight, shimmering like a ghostly doorway.


They sat together on the old wooden dock, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. For a moment, the world was silent—peaceful.


Then the next lantern went out in the restaurant behind them.


He felt the tug again.


“Noah…” she whispered, voice shaking.


He held her tighter. “If I fade tonight, then I’ll find you again. I promise.”


“You always do.”


He kissed her, a long, desperate kiss that tasted of salt and moonlight and endings.


The third lantern died.


His hand began to blur around the edges.


“No… no, not yet,” he begged, clutching her. “I need more time.”


“You have until the last light,” she said, voice breaking. “One left.”


She touched his face, memorizing it with trembling fingers.


“No matter what,” she whispered, “I’ll be here next year.”


“I’ll come back,” he vowed. “Even if I don’t remember why.”


“You will,” she said. “Your heart always knows me.”


The last lantern flickered.


He pressed his forehead to hers.


“I love you,” he breathed.


“I love you,” she whispered back.


The lantern went out.


And Noah dissolved into moonlight.


Elara held the empty air where he had been, her body wracked with silent sobs. She stared at the lake, waiting for the ripples to still, for the night to swallow her grief again.


Then she whispered into the quiet:


“Happy anniversary.”