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I felt a deep pang of recognition, of longing.
A tear escaped my eye, rolling down my cheek, carrying with it both sorrow and joy.
Then, the most vivid of all memories flashed before my eyes.
The kitchen, alive with laughter.
Me, covered in flour, attempting to shape the dough while a younger Thillak playfully teased and dodged the occasional playful swat.
The sheer happiness of that moment was palpable.
The laughter, the love, and the feeling of being complete.
The scene slowly faded, and as I returned to reality, my gaze fell upon Thillak.
But it wasn’t the Thillak of now.
It was him from that past life.
His face was younger, free from the scars of time, but his eyes — the same eyes that had always looked at me with boundless love — were unmistakably his.
He stood there, a silent guardian of our memories, watching me with an intensity that made my heart race.
A soft smile played on his lips, mirroring my own.
The weight of our shared history, of countless lifetimes and endless love, settled between us.
We were here, in this moment, but we were also there, in the past.
Bound together by a love that defied time.
As the day’s last light streamed through the broken windows, casting a warm glow around us, I whispered, “I remember.”
The past and present collided, and in that moment, everything made perfect sense.
* * *
The remnants of our old haven now took a new form, one that was startlingly vivid.
The starkness of the ruins seemed to have been replaced by an opulence that was reminiscent of ancient Rome.
The worn-out bricks transformed into elegant pillars.
Cold, forgotten chambers became airy courtyards with blooming flowers, roses and lilies filling the air, making it heavy with their perfume.
The stone beneath my feet felt different — smoother, cooler, like the fine tiles of a Roman villa.
The distant sound of fountains could be heard, and the gentle touch of a breeze carried whispers of laughter, chatter, and the distant melodies of lyres and flutes.
And right there, at the center of this breathtaking scene, stood Thillak.
He was clad in the garments of a Roman nobleman — a toga of the finest white linen, a deep purple sash around his waist, and sandals that laced up his calves.
The sight of him was otherworldly; it felt as if I had been transported back to an age where gods and mortals mingled freely.
His face, so familiar and yet so fresh in this setting, was even more handsome, if that were possible.
His eyes, however, remained the same — deep, intense, filled with a love that time couldn’t diminish.
