Page 32 of Never Quite Gone

“You don't have to tell me.” The morning light painted shadows that made my chest ache. “I recognize the signs. The way you move through these galleries like you're remembering rather than discovering. The way certain pieces catch your eye – always the healing implements, always the temple artifacts.”

He pulled back like a man trying not to drown. “I have to go. This is?—“

“A lot to take in. I know. Take whatever time you need.”

Sunlight shifted through the skylights, transforming the space into something older, something that made reality feel tissue-paper thin. His voice came barely above a whisper. “The temple dreams. The ones with the marble columns and healing springs. Are they?—“

“Real?” I kept my voice soft as memory. “As real as this moment. As real as the way this gallery feels like coming home.”

His sharp breath echoed off the marble. “I really do have to go.”

“Of course.” I remained still as the statues watching us. “But Eli? When you're ready to talk about it – about any of it – I'll be here. Same time next week, if you're interested.”

Something shifted in his expression, like ice starting to crack in spring. “I'll think about it.”

“That's all I ask.”

His footsteps faded into the museum's quiet, measured but not running. Each click against marble felt like possibility, like the first notes of a familiar song starting to play again after too long a silence.

The weekend crowd drifted through the gallery like water around stones, their phones raised to capture artifacts they'd forget by dinner. My own phone buzzed like an angry hornet in my pocket – Marcus's security updates, Will's board concerns, the endless demands of a billion-dollar empire. I ignored them all, studying the weathered face of Asclepius instead.

Clouds shifted outside, throwing shadows across marble that made my head spin. The air in the gallery felt heavy with possibility and threat, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Movement caught my eye through the massive windows. Eli crossed Fifth Avenue, looking smaller somehow in his weekend clothes than in his usual surgeon's armor. Each step carried the precise control of someone trying not to run. At the crosswalk, his hand went to his temples – fighting off what I knew would be the first of many headaches as memories triedto surface.

A black Bentley slid up to the curb like a shark scenting blood. My jaw clenched as Vale emerged, his Savile Row suit and practiced smile a perfect costume for a predator. The fact that he'd broken his usual patterns to follow Eli here sent ice down my spine.

My vintage watch dug into my palm as my fingers tightened. Some hunters never lost their taste for certain prey, even if they didn't remember why.

“He's escalating faster than expected.”

Marcus materialized beside me like a particularly well-dressed ghost, his voice pitched low enough to blend with the gallery's natural acoustics.

“Vale's been increasing his research into reincarnation,” he reported, each word measured with careful precision. “Past-life regression, historical hospital records, particularly focusing on cases where patients remembered dying in previous lives. His latest grant proposal to the board requests funding for a study on near-death experiences and memory transfer.”

“He doesn't understand what he's remembering,” I watched Vale hand Eli what looked like a business card, the gesture smooth as silk and twice as deadly. “But his soul knows enough to be dangerous.”

Eli tucked the card away like it might bite, his glance back toward the museum quick but telling. Vale caught the look, his gaze rising to meet mine through layers of glass with the kind of recognition that made my blood run cold.

“The patterns are accelerating,” Marcus said, his tablet appearing in his hands like a modern shield. “All the players aligning faster than before. Vale, William, even Sofia – they're all starting to remember, whether they understand it or not.”

“We need to move faster.” The words tasted like ash, but Vale's presence changed everything. “Have you found anything in the historical society's archives?”

“Some promising leads.” His fingers danced across the screen, pulling up documents that smelled of dust and secrets even indigital form. “Hospital records from the 1890s mention a Dr. Monroe treating a Rothschild heir. The details are fragmentary, but there are references to unusual healing methods, to knowledge that seemed beyond normal medical training.”

“And Vale's connection to that lifetime?”

“Still unclear. But his father's influence at Presbyterian goes back generations. The Vale Wing wasn't just named for donations – there's something deeper there, something deliberately obscured in the records.”

I pushed up from the bench, muscles protesting hours of stillness. The corporate world beckoned, all boardrooms and billion-dollar decisions. My hand reached out almost without thought, brushing Asclepius's base in a gesture that made my fingertips tingle.

“The car's waiting,” Marcus said. “I have the latest updates from the hospital board meeting, and William's asked to see you before dinner.”

The museum's marble halls felt colder somehow as we walked out, like Eli had taken some vital warmth with him. Our driver held the car door with perfect timing, the leather interior offering its own kind of sanctuary. Marcus's tablet glowed with updates I couldn't ignore – Vale's proposals, William's discoveries, the hospital board's shifting alliances.

“You did well today,” Marcus's voice carried gentle approval. “Not pushing too hard, letting him find his way naturally. Even in the temple days, you knew when to let healing happen in its own time.”

The streets of New York blurred past the windows, but my mind kept going back to how Eli had looked at the end – questioning everything he thought he knew, but not running away. Maybe this time really would be different. Maybe this time we could break the pattern before Vale remembered enough to repeat ancient mistakes.

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