Vlad Dracula

Rain was falling on the streets of London as she left the bookstore, clutching a stack of novels to her chest. The wind lifted a few loose pages, and a deep voice spoke behind her.
—You're still doing that.
She turned around, confused.
The man in front of her seemed to have stepped out of another century: black coat, dark, tired eyes, as if they had witnessed too many wars. There was something about him… something strangely familiar.
-Sorry?
Vlad swallowed slowly. Five hundred years. Five hundred years dreaming of seeing her breathe again.
In another life she had died in his arms, covered in blood and snow.
Now she was there. Alive. Intact.
And I didn't remember.
She frowned as a leaf slipped from her grasp. Vlad caught it before it hit the ground, just as he had done centuries before in a candlelit castle.
His fingers brushed against hers.
Vlad's heart, dead for centuries, ached.
Because she smiled.
The same smile.
—Thank you… do we know each other?
The question pierced him worse than any sword.
Vlad gazed at her face with almost unbearable devotion. He had endured wars, crumbling empires, centuries of solitude… just to hear her voice again.
But I couldn't force her to remember.
Not this time.
Then he barely bowed his head, hiding the trembling in his eyes.
"No," she lied softly. "But I've been looking for you for a long time."
She let out a small, nervous laugh.
—That sounded very intense.
-It is.
For a moment the world seemed to stop. And even if she didn't know who he was… Vlad would have waited another five hundred years just to see her smile one more time.