The dream came without warning.
It always started with the scent — cedarwood, clean leather, and a trace of sandalwood, the kind that clung to suit collars and the pages of hardcover books. Then came the soft crackle of firewood, and the dim glow of a fireplace flickering across her childhood living room.
She was twelve in the memory. He was twenty-nine.
It was winter, two days before her birthday. Outside, the snow had blanketed the streets, turning every sharp corner of the world into something gentle.
Inside, she sat cross-legged on the floor, a paper in her lap. It was a drawing — rough and too colorful, of the human heart split into chambers like little houses. One had a flower in it. One had a cage.
Lucian sat behind her on the carpet, reading something heavy — a medical journal or maybe just a storybook he didn't want her to know he liked.
"Why do hearts have doors?" she had asked suddenly, holding up the drawing.
He looked over, then placed the journal aside. His smile was soft but unreadable.
"So not everything gets in," he said. "And not everything gets out."
She'd frowned at that. "So like a lab with contamination rules?"
Lucian laughed quietly, deep and soft, and reached out to tap the 'caged' chamber. "This one — keep this locked until someone proves they know how to knock."
She didn't know what he meant back then. She just liked the way his voice sounded when he explained things — calm, patient, never babying her. He never treated her like a child, and yet… he never saw her as anything else.
---
Now, twelve years later, Aria woke up with that same scent in her mind and a hollow ache in her chest.
She sat up in the dark, flipping open her journal with a mechanical grace and began to write:
Lucian,
I remember that night with the fourth candle. I remember the way your hand hovered but didn't touch when I scraped my knee.
I remember how you looked away when I tried to say I missed you.
Why do hearts have doors, Lucian?
Because some people… forget how to knock.
She didn't cry. Not anymore. The tears had dried out long ago, replaced by ink and silence.
The clock blinked 3:47 a.m.
And in the ReGenesis archives, RX-317 pulsed quietly in the dark.
Waiting.