Lost In Time

A breeze carried cinnamon and roasted chestnuts through the laughter of the crowd, lanterns glowing like little suns above them. 

He felt different in body texture, his wrinkles vanishing from his body, leaving him with smooth and youthful nature—a transition in time—but the memories in his mind remained the same. He could see families huddled near bonfires, the crackling flames serenading them with soft pops and hisses.

Children ran with sparklers in their hands, painting the night with giggles and light. Tables overflowed with shared dishes—warm breads torn with bare hands, stews ladled into wooden bowls, and mugs of spiced cider clinked in toasts that echoed with love. The moon bathed the gathering in pearly light, while the woods echoed with owls and rustling leaves. 

Beautiful figures moved through the crowd with quiet confidence, the kind that didn't need permission to be noticed. The moonlight touched their skin, tracing the curves of their bodies without shame. They moved with quiet confidence, their figures commanding attention—curves accentuated by the sway of their steps, the arch of their backs drawing glances.

There were a series of claps—the one that doesn't need a hand—as they ran through the crowd. Waists narrowed just enough to highlight their figures—neither exaggerated nor hidden, but natural and real. Their chests rose with steady breath, full and proud beneath the fabric, and even the subtlest movement—the tilt of a shoulder, the shift of their stance—seemed to carry an unspoken language. They didn't need to speak to be felt; their presence alone was enough.

Their hair fell in thick curls or sleek waves, carrying the faint scent of vanilla, rose oil, or something muskier, richer—fragrances that clung to them like second skin. And when they laughed, it wasn't just sound—it was warmth. It filled the space, pulled heads in its direction, and left a trail of comfort and temptation behind.

People felt better, lighter, just being near them. They weren't dressing up for attention—they were the attention. Not through effort, but through an effortless kind of sensuality. A kind of woman you don't forget—not because of how she looked, but because of how she made the night feel different once she walked into it.

As he moved through the stiff crowd, something soft, round, yet firm brushed against his chest and then bounced like a spring. His heart felt at peace when the touch came, making his head turn in search of the holder. His heart raced as he turned, locking eyes with a gaze so intense it felt divine. It was as if the person knew she was being longed for.

Now, all that lingered between them was the rhythmic thunder of drums and the rustling of tree branches in the wind. Yet to him, the world had fallen silent as he stared deep into her eyes.

He could see something forming, slow and deliberate, pulling him into stillness. Even across the distance, his eyes caught it: the faint lift at the corners of her mouth, like a tide retreating just before a wave, brimming with quiet anticipation.

He didn't just see it—he felt it. It carried a quiet confidence, a sensual whisper that doesn't need sound. The smile that has the reflection of the sea in it—deep, endless, and shimmering with secrets. Looking at it was like staring into clear waters at midnight, so lucid you could see your own desire mirrored back at you. It's not just your face but your most vulnerable hidden self. Yes, that's what he felt.

The smile didn't judge; it welcomed Oliver. It drew him in with warmth and wrapped around his mind like silk soaked in honey, making him forget how to breathe properly. He got the urge to follow the steps of the lady he got attached to—wait, is it just a coincidence? — her eyes had the very best brownish color ever seen, hair as brown as the earth, and shiny as the moonlight.

He lifted a hand, hoping to catch her attention, to make her pause—but the crowd swallowed his gesture. Determined, he changed direction, weaving through bodies, counting each step—until a rough hand clamped down on his shoulder.

He shrugged it off and kept moving toward her. But just as he drew nearer, the grip returned—this time stronger, sinking into his skin as if it meant to pierce through him.

His face crumpled slightly like an angry person as the hand caused him to lose sight of her. The touch felt distant but close, fingers short but big nails sharpened—with sand at their tips.

He could feel the claws pressing just beneath his skin, not yet breaking it, but close—too close.

"Hey, man! Where are you walking to? Didn't you see me?"

The voice was sharp—clear, and full of strange authority. It filled the air like a command.

He hesitated.

Who is this person? Why does it feel like we've met before? And… does he want to leave a mark on me?

There was something about the voice—familiar, but incomplete. It scratched at his memory like nails behind a door, almost there, but not yet.

His gaze dropped to the man's chest—broad, soldier-like, marked with deep, claw-like scars etched across the skin like warnings.

His mind began to race, slipping backward through time.

"Hey, Oliver...!" Have you taken your drug again? Why did you pushed me at first..."

The voice struck his ears like cold metal, sending a shiver down his spine.

He lifted his gaze slowly, curses already forming in his mind. But the moment their eyes met—he froze. The insults vanished. Something in that face held him still.

Not just from fear but from something within. The voice kept lingering in his mind, bringing up a few similar records of it, but the actual name or relationship of the person remained hidden.

"Hey! Stop that foolish look of yours!"

"Why? Have you forgotten me as well?"

The voice cut through Oliver's fog like lightning.

Then—snap.

A click inside his mind. Like a lock finally turning.

"It's me, Leo!"

And suddenly, everything began to shift.