Rebekah’s voice was hushed, as if speaking too loud might shatter the possibility. She stepped out onto the balcony, her silk robe whispering against the worn stone, and joined the shadow at the railing. Her blonde hair was tousled from a fitful sleep, her eyes hollow with a century of lost hope.

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by a distant trumpet wailing a mournful tune. The smell of chicory coffee drifted up from the cafe below.

Klaus moved into the light, his face a mask of carved marble, his blue eyes burning with a predatory intensity that had nothing to do with hunger. He leaned his forearms on the railing, his gaze sweeping the street below as if he might will her into existence.

A shift in the shadows at the far end of the balcony. Elijah. He was a presence more than a sound, immaculate in his dark suit even at this hour. He didn't look at his siblings. His eyes were on that same glowing window in the distance—her window, the one that had been empty and dark for centuries until last Thursday.

The trumpet fell silent. In the sudden quiet, the city seemed to hold its breath. And then, from the direction of that lit window, a faint, almost imperceptible melody drifted on the breeze—an old, old song, one they hadn't heard in a thousand years. A lullaby. Her lullaby.

Klaus was already moving, his coat billowing behind him as he descended into the street. Rebekah followed, a blur of silk and desperation. But Elijah remained a moment longer, watching that window. He saw a silhouette move across the light—a shadow of long hair and a slender frame—before the curtain fell, plunging it into darkness.