Damon Salvatore sat at the bar, swirling amber liquid in his glass. Elena was beside him, talking about something—history homework, maybe—but his attention had drifted.

Then he saw her.

A woman at the far end of the room. Standing completely still in a sea of movement. Black trench coat dripping slightly at the hem. Black lace gloves folded neatly in front of her. A single red lollipop resting between her lips.

She wasn't looking at anyone else. She was looking at him.

The woman tilted her head. Just slightly. A knowing gesture. Like she'd been waiting for him to notice her.

Then she smiled. A small, sad curve of her lips around the candy.

And walked out.

The street was empty. Mostly. Except for one figure beneath the flickering streetlamp.

Black coat. Black gloves. Red lollipop now removed, held between delicate fingers.

She stood like a painting. Unmoving. Waiting.

That voice. That specific, impossible voice. Buried beneath two centuries of grief. Two centuries of bourbon. Two centuries of telling himself she was gone.

The woman stepped closer. Rain beaded on her coat but never seemed to wet her. Like water refused to touch her.

No words came.

Two hundred and seventeen years ago.