No one knew where Adrian came from. He arrived in town one rainy evening, drenched from head to toe, with nothing but a small leather notebook in his hand. He walked into the nearest café, sat at the counter, and ordered a cup of coffee.
It wasn’t the way he looked that unsettled people—it was his eyes. They held the weight of centuries, as if he had seen too much.
“Are you passing through?” the waitress asked, trying to make conversation.
Adrian hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
He opened the notebook, flipping through pages filled with small, hurried handwriting. “I write down everything,” he murmured. “Every day. Every memory. Otherwise, I forget.”
The waitress exchanged a glance with the cook behind the counter. “You forget?”
Adrian nodded. “Every morning, I wake up with no memory of who I am. But I remember… everything else.”
The café fell silent.
Adrian lifted his eyes to her. “I remember the rise and fall of empires. I remember battles fought a thousand years ago. I remember faces of people long turned to dust. But I don’t remember my own name.”
The waitress shivered despite the warmth of the café. “That’s impossible.”
Adrian let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “I wish it were.”
He pulled out a page from his notebook, pushing it toward her. The ink was smudged from the rain, but the words were still legible.
If you are reading this, your name is Adrian Cross. You have been alive for a very, very long time.
The waitress felt her heart pound. “How is this possible?”
Adrian clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. Every night, when I sleep, I forget myself. But I remember the world.”
A long pause. Then, almost too softly to hear, he whispered, “I think I was never meant to exist.”
The rain outside grew heavier. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
And just for a moment, as lightning flashed, the waitress thought she saw something in the window—something watching Adrian from the darkness.
Waiting.
