He always began with the color green.
Not the green of grass or envy, but the soft, silken hue of old leaves pressed between the pages of a book—faded but not forgotten. That was how Aaren described her laughter in his dreams. It was green. Gentle, slow, and warm like sunlight filtered through tall trees.
He had never seen her face. He couldn't—not with eyes that never opened to light. But he felt her. Her voice lingered long after he awoke. Her presence clung to the edges of his senses like perfume on air that refused to drift away.
And always, in every dream, she stood beside a lake.
That morning, Aaren sat at his grand piano in the upper room of the gallery, fingers resting motionless on the keys. His sightless eyes were half-closed, head tilted slightly to the left—listening not for sound, but for color.
Behind him, the gallery was still closed to the public. Only the owner moved about, setting up sculptures for a new exhibit. Aaren's presence was always permitted early. He had earned that privilege with music that made people weep without knowing why.
He pressed a single key.
A minor. Deep. Melancholy.
Violet.
The note swirled in his mind as a shimmer of deep purple hues, touched with silver. It wasn't what he wanted. He tried again—softer, slower.
Green.
Yes.
That was it.
The green of her laughter.
He began to play.
Not the piece he'd composed last night, but something new. His fingers moved on instinct, guided by the memory of a dream he couldn't fully remember. The melody started low and rose like a breeze gaining strength—fragile, trembling, then soaring into something that felt like hope.
In the middle of the piece, his breath caught. A chord slipped.
She was there.
For a moment, the scent of cinnamon and wet stone filled his lungs.
He stopped playing. His hands lifted from the keys.
"Not again," he whispered.
It had been three nights in a row. The same dream, the same woman, the same lake. But with every passing night, more details surfaced. The shape of her shoulder against the fading sky. The sound of her breath before she spoke. A lullaby he didn't recognize—but knew.
He pushed away from the piano and reached for the recorder beside him. He spoke carefully, evenly, like someone afraid to disturb a delicate thread.
"Lake. Autumn. Laughter. Her name? Unknown. Voice—amber. Memory repeats. Feels… real."
Then he clicked off the recorder and leaned back into the chair.
For a long time, Aaren sat in stillness.
And then, he made the call.
Eliora stared at the appointment schedule on her console. The name AAREN glowed softly on the interface. He had booked an in-person consult. High-risk clients rarely did that.
She felt the sudden urge to cancel.
But she didn't.
Instead, she adjusted the lighting in the room, dimmed the neon-blue memory strands overhead, and checked the scan suppressors twice. Then she took a slow breath and sat down, smoothing her dark coat like it might steady her heart.
He arrived early.
He entered without a guide.
That alone made her breath hitch.
He was taller than she expected, lean but graceful. He wore dark sunglasses—not for function, obviously—and a long cream coat. He moved through the room like someone who knew space, not by seeing it, but by hearing its echoes.
He stopped at her desk. Tilted his head.
"I hear color," he said.
Eliora blinked. "Excuse me?"
He smiled faintly. "Your voice. It's burnt gold with a blue edge. I thought it would be softer."
"I can make it softer."
"I'd prefer it real."
Something about him pulled at her. His voice—low, melodic, confident—seemed familiar, but not in a way she could explain. He smelled faintly of sandalwood and rain.
She motioned for him to sit. "You submitted a Tier Alpha request. Most clients that level remain anonymous."
"I know," he said, lowering himself carefully into the seat across from her. "But I needed to see you."
She swallowed. "Why?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small chip. He slid it across the table.
"These are dreams I recorded. Five over the last week. They've… shifted. Grown more detailed. More personal."
Eliora didn't touch the chip. She stared at it like it might explode.
He continued, "There's a woman in them. I think I'm in love with her. But I don't know her name. Or if she's real. I thought—maybe—you could help me find her."
She finally picked up the chip.
"I can implant memories," she said cautiously. "But finding someone from your dreams… that's not how this works."
"I'm not asking for fantasy," Aaren said. "I'm asking for truth."
Her fingers tightened slightly on the chip.
What if he wasn't just dreaming her? What if she really had been there? In his past. In his memories. In some erased corner of their lives neither of them had chosen to forget?
What if they had loved each other before?
She looked at him.
And he said, very softly: "Have we met before?"