He went straight to his private gallery. The gallery was silent. The painting stared at him with those same piercing green eyes. He trembled slightly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. For the first time in years, Damon felt an unfamiliar helplessness, a yearning he could not name, tethered to a woman he had never met outside of canvas and dream.

Morning light filtered in somewhere behind him, but he hadn't turned to look. He hadn't moved at all, actually. He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the massive portrait hanging across from him as if he were waiting for it to speak first. 

"Well?" he said quietly. 

The woman in the painting did not answer. Damon took a closer look. Tracing the brush strokes. Her red hair caught the light in a way that made it look almost bright and fiery like a wild fire. It was alive. Her pale skin was dusted with freckles that looked perfectly scattered in place. 

Whoever painted her must have loved her deeply to be able to capture such details flawlessly. 

Her green eyes-God-those eyes didn't stare blankly the way painted eyes were supposed to. They looked right through him. 

Damon swallowed. 

"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "You're a fucking painting. Oil and canvas. You didn't call me anything." 

Silence pressed back at him. 

In his dream, she had stood in a garden bursting with colorful flowers stretching endlessly behind her. He could still smell it when he closed his eyes. The sweet smell, so soft and familiar in a way that made no sense. 

Jeffrey. 

The name landed in his chest like a misplaced memory. He exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down his face. 

"I don't even know anyone named Jeffrey," he said to the empty room. "So if this is some elaborate psychological break, I'd really like it to be less creative." 

The painting did not blink or breathe. It didn't even tilt its head the way it had in his dream when she smiled and said, My love. 

He stared harder, as if intensity alone could force an explanation out of her. 

"Who are you?" he asked. 

Nothing. 

"Why did I dream about you?" 

Still nothing. 

A ridiculous thought crept in uninvited. 

What if it's cursed? 

Damon scoffed out loud at that. "Oh, come on." 

He didn't believe in curses. Didn't believe in superstition. Didn't believe in haunted objects or past lives or spirits lingering in oil paint. He believed in provenance, market value, and the psychology of obsession. That was it. 

And yet. 

The dream had felt too real and not fragmented the way dreams usually were. He'd felt grass beneath his fingers and the sun on his face. He'd felt like he was home. 

The gallery door opened behind him. 

Victor stopped short the moment he saw Damon standing there. 

"You're going to burn a hole through it if you keep staring like that," Victor said lightly. "And considering what you paid, I'd prefer we keep it intact." 

Damon didn't turn. 

Victor frowned. "Okay. That's new." 

Damon finally spoke. "Do you ever look at something and feel like it's looking back?" 

Victor blinked. "Good morning to you too sir." 

Damon glanced over his shoulder. "I'm serious." 

Victor stepped into the room, his usual easy posture sharpening with attention. "You didn't sleep." 

"That obvious?" Damon asked. 

"You look like you spent the night arguing with a ghost." Victor replied. 

Damon huffed a short laugh that held no humor. "That's not funny." 

Victor studied him for a moment, then followed his gaze to the painting. "Is this about her?" "She has a name," Damon said without thinking. 

Victor raised an eyebrow. "You know that how?" 

Damon hesitated. 

This was the moment where he either laughed it off or told the truth. The truth sounded insane even in his head but he chose the truth. 

"I dreamt about her," he said. 

Victor waited. 

"I wasn't... watching her," Damon continued slowly. "I was there. With her. She spoke to me." 

Victor's expression changed in curiosity. "What did she say?" 

Damon swallowed. "She called me Jeffrey." 

Silence stretched between them. 

"And?" Victor prompted. 

"And she acted like she knew me," Damon said. "Like I was supposed to remember her." 

Victor folded his arms. "You know dreams borrow faces all the time. Especially after intense experiences." 

"That's the thing," Damon snapped, then softened his tone. "It didn't feel borrowed. It felt remembered." 

Victor studied the painting again, more carefully this time. "Did you know her name before the dream?" 

"No." 

"And now you do." 

"Yes." 

Victor exhaled slowly. "Okay. That's interesting." 

Damon shot him a look. "You're not even going to pretend that's normal?" 

"Oh, it's not," Victor said. "But it's also not unheard of. Art can trigger subconscious associations. Especially if-" 

"She said her name was Maeve," Damon interrupted. 

Victor stopped mid-sentence. "You're joking." 

"I wish I were." 

Victor stared at the painting for a long moment.  

"Does the catalog list a subject name?" 

"No. Just 'Unknown Woman.'" 

Victor nodded once. "Then we find out." 

Damon frowned. "Find out what?" 

"Who painted her. Who owned her. Where she's been." Victor met his eyes. "Paintings don't appear out of nowhere, Mr Hale. Someone put her into the world." 

Hope flickered before Damon could stop it. 

"Let's start now," Damon said. 

They did. 

By noon, Damon had spoken to three galleries, two private collectors, and an archivist who owed Victor a favor. By midafternoon, they'd chased down every lead tied to the auction house. The answers were always the same. 

No records. No ownership trail. No listed artist. 

"That's impossible," Damon muttered, hanging up another call. 

Victor rubbed his temples. "It's not impossible. It's intentional." 

"Intentional how?" 

"Someone erased her," Victor said. "Or hid her very well." 

Damon leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The dream replayed again. The way she'd looked at him like he was something precious. 

Don't you remember me? 

His phone buzzed. Unknown number. 

He hesitated, then answered. "Hello?" 

There was a pause. Then a voice. 

"You've been asking questions about the painting." 

Damon's spine went rigid. "Who is this?" 

Victor straightened. 

The voice continued. "If you want answers, you'll need to come in person." 

"Where?" 

"I'll text you the address." 

The line went dead. 

Victor stared at him. "What was that?" 

Damon looked at his phone as the address came through. "Someone who knows." 

They left that evening.

The streets seemed narrower as they turned onto the side avenue. Rain slicked the asphalt with reflections of neon signs dancing in puddles. Damon barely noticed, lost in thought about the painting and the strange dreams it had inspired.

Suddenly.

The tyres screeched. A horn blared. 

The driver swerved sharply to avoid a truck, but it was too late. Then- 

A loud crash. 

–

The emergency doors flew open so hard they rattled against the wall. 

"Trauma incoming!" 

The shout tore through the ward sharply and Ivy Byrne was already moving before the words fully registered. Charts were dropped. Conversations died mid-sentence. The controlled hum of the hospital snapped into something louder and urgent. 

A gurney burst through the doors, pushed hard, its wheels squealing against the floor. 

"Male. Severe head trauma." 

"BP's unstable." 

"Clear a bay now!." 

Ivy fell into step beside the gurney, pulling on gloves as she moved. The man on it was unconscious, blood dark and sticky in his hair, his face frighteningly pale beneath it. There was a split at his lip, swelling already blooming along his cheekbone. His chest rose, but unevenly, like breathing itself was an effort. 

"Sir," a paramedic called loudly, leaning close. "Sir, can you hear me?" 

No response. 

Ivy's fingers found the pulse at his neck. It was weak. 

"Pressure's dropping," she said, voice steady even as her heart kicked up. 

"Get fluids in." 

"I've got him." 

Hands moved fast. Too many at once. Ivy focused on what was in front of her, numbers, rhythm and the body on the edge of slipping away. 

"Stay with us, sir," someone said again. "Stay with us." 

The words felt less like instruction and more like a plea. 

They reached the bay, transferring him in one fluid motion. Ivy helped secure lines, adjusted monitors, her movements were efficient and automatic. She'd done this a hundred times before. Still, something about him snagged her attention. 

"Any ID?" someone asked. 

"Name's Damon Hale," a voice answered from behind them. "Brought in with two others." 

Ivy didn't turn. Names came later. Survival came first. 

The monitor beeped with sharp sounds. 

"He's crashing." 

The room tightened. 

"BP's dropping fast." 

"Come on," another voice muttered. "Don't you do this." 

Ivy caught a glimpse of a man just beyond the curtain. He was tall and shaken with blood on his sleeve. He was injured, but upright, refusing a chair that someone tried to push toward him. 

"That's him," the man said hoarsely. "That's Damon." 

Victor was devastated.

She didn't know him but she recognized the way he stood still, like if he moved he might fall apart. 

"Sir, we need you to step back," someone told him. 

"I'm not in the way," Victor said tightly. "Just tell me what's happening." 

"We're doing everything we can." 

The words sounded rehearsed. Ivy hated that. She hated how empty they always felt. 

"Sir, can you hear me?" the doctor repeated, louder this time. 

Nothing. 

Ivy watched the monitor dip again, numbers sliding in the wrong direction. 

"Hold him steady." 

"I've got him." 

Her hands were on his arm now, grounding him, grounding herself. 

"Stay with us." 

The phrase echoed through the room, said by different voices, layered on top of each other like a chant. 

For a moment, just one terrifying moment, the monitor flatlined. 

Everything froze. 

Then- 

A heartbeat. 

A flicker. 

The line jumped. 

"There," someone said. "There we go." The room exhaled as one. 

"Okay," the doctor said. "Okay. He's stabilizing." 

Ivy didn't relax. Not yet. Stabilizing was fragile and temporary. It meant not dead, not safe. They worked for several more minutes, the tension slowly easing but never disappearing entirely. Finally, the worst of it passed. 

"He's stable," the doctor confirmed. "For now." 

Victor sagged visibly, one hand bracing against the wall. Ivy saw his knuckles whiten as he clenched them. 

"Can I see him?" he asked. 

"In a moment," the doctor replied. "He needs imaging first." 

Victor nodded once, jaw tight. "I'll wait." 

They moved Damon out of the bay once the immediate danger had passed. Ivy followed with a chart in hand, though she hadn't been assigned to him specifically. She told herself it was habit. 

The hallway was quieter. The machines hummed steadily now, no longer screaming alarms. 

Damon lay still on the bed, his breathing was more even, but still shallow. Ivy adjusted his IV, checking his vitals again. 

Damon Hale. 

The name surfaced, lodged somewhere in her thoughts. 

She frowned faintly at herself and pushed it away. 

Victor appeared again, refusing help for his own injuries, insisting on standing beside the bed. "What's his condition?" he asked. 

"Stable," the doctor repeated. "But unconscious." 

"How long?" 

The doctor hesitated. Ivy noticed that. 

"It's too early to say," he answered carefully. "The head trauma was severe. He may wake up soon. Or it may take time." 

"How much time?" Victor pressed. 

"Days," the doctor said. "Weeks. Possibly longer." 

Victor nodded slowly, absorbing the words like blows. 

"And the other?" he asked. "The driver?" 

"Alive," the doctor said. "Broken ribs. Fractured leg. He's in surgery now." 

Victor closed his eyes briefly. "Hmmm" 

Ivy watched all of this quietly, cataloging details she didn't need to remember but somehow knew she would. 

The way Victor stood too straight and the way his eyes never left Damon. 

Hours passed. 

The ward settled into its nighttime rhythm. Ivy's shift continued, duties pulling her away and then back again. 

She told herself she didn't need to check on him again. She did anyway. 

Damon lay unchanged, machines humming softly beside him. His face looked calmer now, stripped of urgency, almost peaceful. 

Almost. 

Ivy adjusted the blanket at his shoulders, careful not to disturb him.

"Several months wouldn't be unusual," she heard a doctor say quietly outside the room. 

Her hand stilled. 

"That long?" Victor asked. 

"Yes. There's no guarantee. He could wake tomorrow. Or not at all." 

Silence followed. 

Ivy pretended not to listen, but the words settled deep.

Several months. 

She looked at Damon again, really looked this time. 

He didn't look like a man who belonged to a hospital bed. He looked like someone paused mid-stride, caught between one moment and the next. 

She straightened, scolding herself silently. 

"This is unprofessional."

Later, when the lights dimmed further and the ward quieted to a low murmur, Ivy found herself back in his room one last time. 

Just to check the monitor, she told herself. And to make sure everything was steady. She moved softly, adjusting a setting, smoothing the sheet. 

His fingers twitched. 

It was small. Almost nothing. But she saw it. 

Her breath caught. 

"Sir?" she whispered, before she could stop herself. 

Nothing. 

She waited. Her eyes were fixed on his hand with her heart pounding. 

It didn't move again. 

Rationality rushed in. Probably muscle reflex and nerve response. It meant nothing. She told herself that as she stepped back and forced herself to leave the room. The door clicked shut behind her. 

But long after she returned to her duties, the image lingered in her mind. 

"Why do I feel this way?" She asked herself.

–

Sound came first. 

Too many sounds. Sharp, overlapping, crashing into each other without rhythm. A horn blaring too close. Shouting. Someone swearing. Glass breaking like it kept shattering long after it should have stopped. 

Then pain. 

This pain was everywhere and nowhere at once, a heavy pressure pressing inward, squeezing thought out of him before he could name it. 

Damon tried to breathe. 

His chest refused. 

Something was wrong. He tried to open his eyes, but the darkness didn't lift. It pressed back instead, swallowing him whole. His body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. Like he was reaching for it through water. 

Voices floated in and out. 

"-call it in-" 

"-blood pressure's dropping-" 

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" 

Hear. 

Yes. He could hear. He wanted to say that. He wanted to say I'm here but his mouth didn't move. Everything spun and slammed sideways. Pain flared hot and bright, then dulled again, retreating into a deep, echoing throb. 

This is how it ends, a distant part of him thought. Darkness surged up again and swallowed everything. 

When awareness returned this time, the sounds were different. He heard rhythms. A steady beeping somewhere close, too regular to belong to the outside world. Air moved across his face, it felt artificial, cool and dry. 

He was lying down. 

That realization came slowly, as if his mind had to negotiate for it. His body felt heavy and pinned in place. He couldn't move his arms. Couldn't move his legs. He tried anyway, sending the command, waiting for his body to obey. 

Panic stirred suddenly. 

Move. 

Nothing. 

Move. 

Still nothing. 

His heart rate spiked, and the beeping nearby responded, quickening as if mocking him. Voices again. Clearer this time, though still distant. 

"He's stable." 

"Any response?" 

"None yet." 

Yet. 

That word lingered. 

Damon tried to focus on it, on what it meant. Stable meant alive. Alive meant not finished. Not yet. 

Something touched his arm. He felt the pressure.  

"We're here," a voice said, closer now. It sounded professional. "You're not alone." 

He wanted to laugh at that. Or scream. Or do anything to prove he was still himself in here, wherever here was. 

But his body remained silent. He drifted in and out. Sometimes there were voices. Sometimes there was nothing at all. Sometimes pain surfaced, sharp enough to remind him he existed before fading again into a numb, floating haze. 

He learned the rhythm of the beeping and the cadence of footsteps. He learned the difference between day and night by the quality of sound in the room, not by sight. 

He heard names. Doctors. Nurses. Once, just once, he heard Victor. "...he'd hate this," Victor's voice said. "Just lying here." 

Damon tried to respond. He tried to reach for that familiar presence. The effort drained him, pulling him back under before he could even begin. 

The darkness welcomed him again. 

There were moments when he thought he was dreaming. Fragments slipped in vividly. Colors where there should have been none. Then warmth. The faintest scent of something sweet, a floral scent. 

He dismissed it at first. 

Brains did strange things when injured. He knew that. He clung to logic the way a drowning man clung to wreckage. But the fragments kept returning. 

Yellow. Pink. White. Purple. Soft and pale, like sunlight caught in petals. A breeze brushing his cheek, gentle enough to feel intentional. It wasn't the sterile air of machines, but something alive. He felt grass under his fingers.  

That was new. 

He tried to focus on it, but it slipped away, replaced by the steady beeping again. The hum of electricity and the faint murmur of voices. 

"You think he can hear us?" 

"It's possible." 

"Talk to him anyway." 

A pause. 

"Damon," someone said. "If you can hear me, you're safe." 

Safe. 

The word felt hollow. 

Because somewhere deep inside him, something was shifting. Sliding as if the ground beneath his awareness was no longer solid. The name from the dream surfaced again. 

Jeffrey. 

It didn't feel foreign anymore. It felt close. Closer than it should have. 

Damon tried to push it away. He was Damon Hale. He knew who he was. He knew where he belonged. New York. His gallery. The painting...the painting... 

Her face appeared behind his closed eyes with startling clarity. It wasn't flat like paint. She was alive and breathing. Her green eyes fixed on him with an expression that made his chest ache. 

"Don't you remember me?" 

"I don't," he tried to say. 

The words didn't leave his mouth. They didn't need to. The world tilted again, gently this time. The beeping stretched, slowed, distorted, until it no longer sounded mechanical at all. The voices faded into a distant hum, then into nothing. 

The scent returned. Stronger now. 

Flowers. 

He felt sunlight on his face. Real sunlight. He felt the solid press of ground beneath him.  

Earth. 

His fingers twitched. This time, they moved. The realization hit him with a jolt of something close to terror. He could feel his body again. 

He drew in a breath and it came easily, filling his lungs without resistance. Clean and fresh air. His heart pounded without pain this time but with shock. 

This isn't possible. 

He opened his eyes. 

Color exploded into existence. Green stretched endlessly around him vibrantly. The sky above was clear and blue. Flowers dotted the landscape in every direction, swaying gently in the breeze. 

Primroses. 

He pushed himself upright, staring down at his hands. They were his and also not his. Younger, somehow. Unmarked. Strong in a way he didn't remember being. 

His clothes were wrong too, it wasn't modern. It was just a simple fabric with no impeccable tailoring. 

His pulse thundered in his ears. 

"This isn't real," he said aloud. 

His voice sounded different. It was altered. As if it belonged to a version of him he had never met. 

A shadow fell across the grass. 

He looked up. 

Someone stood a few steps away, a young man slightly older than him riding on a horse. Relief flooded his expression as he sighted him. 

"There you are, Jeffrey." The young man said. 

He stood slowly, his instinct and memory colliding. 

"I've been looking all over for you". The young man said again gently. 

A name settled into him like a key turning in a lock and it clicked. 

Patrick. 

"Aye! Patrick, the weather is quite friendly today, I thought I might bask in its warm embrace." Jeffrey said. 

"Do not tarry too long now cousin, for there's much to be done." Patrick replied. 

"I shan't." Jeffrey said. 

And somewhere, far behind him, the world he had known fell completely silent. 

–