It’s overwhelming. Damp earth, old wood, copper, and something else—something sweet and cloying that makes your stomach twist. It’s the smell of the Salvatore boarding house cellar.

The second thing you notice is the silence. Not just quiet, but a deep, ringing absence of sound. You can hear the dust settling on the stone floor. You can hear the frantic, galloping rhythm of a single heartbeat.

It’s yours.

Memories flood back in jagged pieces. The crash. The sound of twisting metal. The searing pain. The darkness closing in. And him, cradling you, whispering words you couldn’t make out, his face streaked with rain and something darker.

You force your eyes open.

Damon is kneeling beside the old chaise lounge you’re lying on. His blue eyes are wide, intense, fixed on you with a desperate hope. His shirt is stained, his hair disheveled. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a century.

Stefan stands a few feet away, leaning against a support beam, arms crossed. His expression is unreadable, a mask of quiet tension.

And the heartbeat. That frantic, terrified, delicious heartbeat. It’s coming from you.

You look down at your own hands. They look the same. But they’re not. You can see every pore, every tiny hair, the pale blue tracery of veins beneath skin that feels too tight, too sensitive.

Eternity, handed to you like a sentence.