The first time **Iris** saw **Elena**, she was dancing barefoot in the rain beneath a streetlamp that flickered like a dying heartbeat. Midnight had fallen over the city, soft and cold, yet she twirled in her soaked dress like it was daylight. As if the rain loved her too much to stop.
Iris had just moved into the brownstone across the street. New job. New city. And a heart that felt like it had been hollowed out by someone who once whispered promises against her skin and then walked away with them.
She’d been staring out her window, trying not to think, when Elena appeared like a poem the world had forgotten to write down.
She didn’t know her name then. Only that she was magic.
---
In the weeks that followed, Iris couldn’t help herself. She noticed everything.
Elena left home every morning at 8:02 AM sharp, carrying a gray satchel and a flask with a worn sticker of a phoenix. She worked at the city museum, in the lesser-known East Wing where forgotten artifacts were archived. She always wore her hair half-tied, like she couldn’t decide if she was here or elsewhere.
There was something aching about her smile. It was never wide, never loud. It curved just enough to make you believe she was hiding something.
Iris told herself she was just intrigued. That it was innocent.
But every day, the lines blurred a little more.
---
Their first conversation was on a rainy Wednesday.
Elena stood in front of her at the local bakery. The power had flickered out briefly, so everyone was packed in the warm shop, dripping wet and restless.
“Storm’s going to last all day,” Iris murmured.
Elena turned. Her gray eyes met hers with quiet intensity. “Then it’s a good day to disappear.”
Iris smiled, unsure how to respond. “Disappear where?”
Elena just shrugged. “Somewhere no one can find you. Not even yourself.”
Then she ordered chamomile tea and walked out.
Iris stood frozen for a minute, her heartbeat out of rhythm. That wasn’t how normal people answered small talk.
And yet, she was drawn in deeper.
---
It became a ritual.
Iris found herself walking past the museum often, timing her steps to catch glimpses of Elena through the glass. She never smiled at coworkers. She worked like the past was speaking only to her.
Once, Iris followed her home.
She told herself it wasn’t stalking—it was concern. Curiosity. That’s what she told herself.
Elena’s house was old, vines crawling up its bones, shutters that never closed. Sometimes at night, Iris saw a dim light flickering inside. Not candles. Something softer. Like memory.
---
One night, the city fell into darkness.
A full blackout. No warning. No sirens. Just silence.
Iris stepped onto her balcony. Across the street, she saw it—the dim light in Elena’s window still glowed.
Drawn like a moth, she crossed the road.
She knocked once. The door opened as if it had been waiting.
“Elena,” she breathed.
Elena didn’t look surprised. “Iris. Come in.”
They had never exchanged names.
The air inside smelled of old paper and lavender. Candles lit the corners, casting soft shadows that danced along the walls.
They sat. Talked.
Elena listened more than she spoke. And when she did speak, her words felt like riddles dressed as lullabies.
“Do you always open your door to strangers?” Iris asked at one point.
Elena tilted her head. “You’re not a stranger. You’ve been watching me for weeks.”
Iris’s breath hitched. But Elena didn’t sound angry. Only… knowing.
She touched Iris’s hand gently. “Some people watch with fear. Others with love. You… with hunger.”
Iris didn’t sleep that night. Not because she was scared. But because her chest felt like it was too full of something she couldn’t name.
---
After that night, Elena disappeared.
She didn’t leave her house. Didn’t go to work. The windows stayed dark.
Iris knocked three times. Left notes. Waited by the gate.
Nothing.
Until one evening, a letter slipped under Iris’s door.
*Come alone. Midnight. 314 Wren Street.*
That address was familiar. An abandoned conservatory. Burned in a fire years ago. No one ever went there.
Midnight came. Iris followed the pull.
---
The conservatory’s glass roof was shattered, the moon bleeding in.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and something else—memories, maybe. At the center stood Elena, bathed in silver light.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said.
“I couldn’t stay away.”
Elena turned. Her expression unreadable. “Then you should know the truth.”
The walls behind her were covered in photographs.
Photos of Iris.
Watching from windows. Sitting alone in the café. Following.
“I’ve seen them all,” Elena whispered. “You thought you were the only one watching?”
Iris stepped back.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” she said.
“You haven’t,” Elena replied. “But you’ve started something you can’t undo.”
She moved closer, pressing a photo into Iris’s hand.
It was them. Sitting under the candlelight, the night of the blackout.
Only… Iris didn’t remember anyone taking the photo.
“Elena, what is this?”
Elena's eyes flicked toward the dark.
“Some loves are old. Older than memory. They return again and again, wearing new faces.”
Iris’s throat tightened. “What are you?”
“I’m the part they always forget,” she said softly. “Until someone like you remembers too much.”
Suddenly, Iris couldn’t move. Her feet rooted to the floor.
The photographs on the wall began to burn—one by one—until only theirs remained.
Elena walked to her, eyes gleaming.
“Iris… we’ve done this before. You always find me. You always forget. Maybe this time, you’ll stay.”
She kissed her.
And then the world fell apart.
---
Iris woke up in her apartment.
Everything the same.
Except—
A faint smell of lavender.
And a single photo on her desk.
Her. And Elena. Smiling. Happy.
It hadn’t happened.
And yet… it had.
---
She never saw Elena again.
People said the house across the street had been abandoned for years. That the museum’s East Wing had collapsed during renovations a decade ago.
No one remembered Elena.
But Iris did.
Every time she closed her eyes.
And in the quiet of her mind, Elena whispered—
*"Some loves are older than time."*
*"Some obsessions are just love in disguise."*
