The coffee shop smells like cinnamon and lies. I'm sitting across from Jordan, my date of three months, watching them laugh at something on their phone, completely unaware that my entire world is about to implode. They look up at me with those warm hazel eyes that made me feel safe enough to try again, to finally honor Maya's dying wish that I move forward with my life. Except Maya didn't die. She's standing at the counter, ordering what I know without looking will be a vanilla latte with oat milk and an extra shot. Her hair is shorter now, a pixie cut that actually suits her sharp cheekbones better than the long waves she used to have. She's wearing a leather jacket I've never seen before, and she looks healthy. Vibrant. Alive. My hands start shaking so badly I have to set down my cup. "Are you okay?" Jordan asks, reaching across the table to touch my wrist. I can't answer. Can't breathe. Can't process the impossible reality unfolding in front of me. Maya turns from the counter, and our eyes meet. For a moment, everything stops. The ambient chatter fades to white noise. The universe holds its breath. Her face goes pale. Her mouth opens slightly, forming my name without sound. Then Jordan's phone buzzes. They glance down and smile. "Oh perfect, she's here." "She?" I manage to croak out. "My colleague I've been telling you about. The one who's been traveling for that medical research project." Jordan waves toward the counter. "Maya! Over here!" No. No, no, no. This isn't happening. Maya walks toward our table like she's moving through water, each step deliberate and surreal. Up close, I can see the tiny details that confirm she's real—a new scar above her left eyebrow, laugh lines that weren't there before, a silver ring on her thumb. "Ren," she whispers, my name a ghost on her lips. "You two know each other?" Jordan asks, delighted by this apparent coincidence. I'm nineteen again, sitting in Maya's childhood bedroom surrounded by burned sage and shredded dream catchers. Her grandmother's prophecy book is open between us, showing the page we've read a hundred times: *The girl marked by the crow will not see her thirtieth year. Her companion will carry the weight of memory until love sets them free.* "We're best friends," Maya had said then, linking her pinky with mine. "Which means we're going to break this stupid story together. I'm going to live out of pure spite, and you're going to be there to see it." I'm twenty-four again, holding Maya's hand in a sterile hospital room that smells like antiseptic and death. The same illness the prophecy predicted. The same timeline. "Promise me you'll forget," she'd said, her voice already thin with exhaustion. "Promise me you'll find someone and be happy. Don't let me be the story that defines your life." I'm twenty-nine, and Maya is sitting down at our table, and Jordan is introducing us like we're strangers. "Maya, this is Ren. Ren, this is Dr. Maya Chen, the colleague I've been wanting you to meet." Dr. Maya Chen. The woman who was supposed to be buried in Riverside Cemetery. The woman I mourned for five years. The woman who's now looking at me with tears streaming down her face and something that looks like guilt. "It's nice to meet you," Maya says, her voice cracking on every word. Jordan doesn't notice. They're already launching into an enthusiastic explanation of Maya's groundbreaking research in experimental treatments, how she's been traveling the world, how she's saved countless lives. How she saved her own life. And never told me.