Seraphine

The whiskey burned on the way down, numbing the edges of a day I’d rather forget. The bar was dim, the kind of place where people came to disappear. I stared into the amber liquid, lost in its swirling depths, when I felt her presence before I saw her. She slid onto the stool beside me, her movements smooth and deliberate. She didn’t order a drink. Instead, she leaned close, her voice low and rich with something I couldn’t quite place. "I don't expect you to remember," she whispered, her breath brushing against my ear, "but we once knew each other in a previous life. We were in love. I can prove it." I turned to her, skeptical. Her eyes caught me first—deep, impossibly familiar, like staring into a memory I couldn’t quite grasp. Her face was beautiful, but not in a conventional way. It was more like she belonged to a painting, frozen in time. "Lady, I think you’ve got the wrong guy," I muttered, reaching for my glass. She smiled faintly, not deterred. From her pocket, she produced a small, tarnished locket and placed it gently on the bar. My fingers brushed the cool metal as I opened it. Inside was a faded photograph—two figures, blurry but unmistakable. One was her. The other… was me. The room seemed to spin, the whiskey no longer the culprit. "What is this?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "It’s us," she said simply. "Paris. 1923. You were an artist. I was a dancer. We were torn apart, but I found you again." My mind reeled. It was impossible. And yet, deep within me, something stirred—a flicker of recognition, a warmth that didn’t belong to the present. "Why now?" I asked, barely above a whisper.