Malik didn't touch her at first.
Sasha stood in the middle of his living room, her presence already altering the air, bending it into something familiar and dangerous. Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to.
Recognition had already done the work.
"You came," he said finally, his voice low, almost disbelieving.
Sasha let out a slow breath. "I didn't plan to."
"That doesn't surprise me."
His eyes searched hers,not like a stranger, but like someone trying to confirm something he had already known long before this moment.
"Do you feel it too?" she asked.
The question hung between them, fragile and heavy.
Malik hesitated.
Not because he didn't understand,but because he did.
"Yes," he admitted.
That single word shifted everything.
Sasha stepped closer.
"Since when?"
He let out a dry laugh.
"Since before I knew your name."
Her heart stuttered.
"That doesn't make sense."
"None of this does," he said, his tone tightening. "I wake up with memories that aren't mine. I know things I shouldn't. I feel..." he stopped himself, jaw clenching, "...like I've already lost you."
Silence fell.
Thick.
Unavoidable.
Sasha swallowed. "Maybe you did."
That broke something.
Not loudly. Not violently.
Quietly.
The kind of break that runs deep.
Malik closed the distance between them.
"You shouldn't be here," he said again,but this time, it sounded like a warning to himself.
Sasha didn't step back.
"I know."
And then...
He kissed her.
Not tentative.
Not unsure.
It was immediate. Familiar. Like something unfinished finally being allowed to happen.
Sasha responded just as quickly, her hands gripping his shirt like she needed proof he was real.
Because he was.
Because this was.
Because whatever had started before,had found them again.
The door opened.
They didn't hear it at first.
Didn't notice the shift in the air.
Didn't feel the presence until...
"You found her again."
The voice was calm.
Too calm.
They pulled apart instantly.
Malik turned, his expression tightening.
His wife stood there, composed, her gaze fixed on Sasha.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Certain.
Sasha stepped back, guilt crashing into her too late. "I didn't..."
"Yes, you did," the woman interrupted gently.
Her eyes didn't leave Sasha.
"It's always you."
The words sank deep.
"What does that mean?" Sasha asked, her voice quieter now.
The woman tilted her head slightly, studying her.
"Tell me something," she said. "When you look at him… does it feel like a choice?"
Sasha opened her mouth...
And stopped.
Because the answer wasn't simple.
It wasn't even hers.
It felt inevitable.
Like gravity.
Like something already decided.
Her silence was enough.
The wife nodded slowly.
"Exactly."
Malik stepped forward. "Stop. You don't know what you're saying."
His wife finally looked at him.
"Oh, I do," she said softly. "I just don't think you're ready to hear it."
Her gaze returned to Sasha.
"You're not new," she said. "You're just… back."
Sasha felt something shift inside her.
"Back from where?"
The woman's lips curved slightly,not a smile, not quite.
"From the place where you always leave him."
The words hit like a blow.
Malik's expression hardened. "That's enough."
"No," she said, still calm. "It's not."
She stepped closer now.
Not aggressive.
Not threatened.
Grounded.
"You think this is about betrayal?" she continued.
"About cheating? About some sudden, irrational attraction?"
A quiet breath.
"It's not."
Sasha's pulse quickened.
"Then what is it?"
The woman's eyes darkened slightly.
"It's repetition."
Silence.
And in that silence...
Truth began to surface.
𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑨𝑵 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑻 𝑨 𝑭𝑨𝑪𝑬
Misha didn't believe in coincidence.
Not anymore.
Not after everything she had seen.
The markings.
The dreams.
The way patterns repeated even when no one was trying to recreate them.
So when the second parchment slipped loose beneath the first...
She knew it wasn't accidental.
"Maari," she said quietly.
The older woman looked up from across the table.
"What is it?"
Misha didn't answer immediately.
Her fingers hovered over the brittle edges of the parchment before carefully lifting it free.
It was older.
Burned.
Deliberately damaged.
Like someone had tried to erase it.
"What did they hide?" Misha murmured.
Maari stepped closer. "Let me see."
Misha turned it.
And everything shifted.
Because this time...
The man had a face.
Not fully intact.
Not perfect.
But enough.
Enough to recognize.
Her breath caught.
"No…"
Maari frowned. "What?"
Misha stepped back slightly, her mind racing.
"That's not possible."
"Explain."
But Misha couldn't...not yet.
Because what she was seeing didn't align with logic.
Or time.
Or reality.
"It's him," she whispered.
"Who?" Maari pressed.
Misha shook her head slowly.
"Not one man."
A pause.
Then...
"It's the same man."
Maari's expression tightened. "That makes no sense."
"It does if the ritual didn't just bind the women," Misha said, her voice gaining urgency.
"What if it anchored him too?"
Silence.
Heavy.
Implications unfolding.
"You're saying he's been…" Maari hesitated, "...returning?"
"Not returning," Misha corrected.
"Repeating."
Her gaze dropped back to the parchment.
The torn edges.
The burned sections.
The deliberate attempt to erase identity.
"They removed his face for a reason," she said. "Because if anyone recognized him..."
"They'd understand the cycle," Maari finished.
Misha nodded.
"And how to break it."
A beat.
Then...
Her voice dropped.
"I think we already know him."