The first thing he noticed was the noise.

It was not the roar of battlefields or the deep hum of the underworld's gates. This was different-sharp, dissonant, alive. Honking horns, distant music, a woman yelling into something small and glowing in her hand. Light buzzed him like angry spirits.

Erevan, God of forgotten dead, lay sprawled on a cold concrete sidewalk.

And no one even noticed.

He groaned, trying to rise. His limbs felt like they were made of stone. A pair of humans stepped over him like he was a trash, muttering something about "cosplay addicts". Someone laughe. Another threw a crumpled paper cup his way.

He clenched his fists.

No shadows answered.

No wind obyed.

He was truly, terrifying- mortal.

"Curse me again", he growled under his breath, and I swear I'll-

you already have.

The words echoed in his mind, a celestial whisper left behind like the sting of blade. The memory was fading fast, but he still saw flashes- the judgement chamber, the gods in gold, the breaking of his chain bound throne, and above all her voice:

"Let him walk among the living. Let him feel. Let him fall."

and fall, he had.

onto this street. This world. This... chaos.

He staggered to his feet. People streamed past him without a second glance. Building stretched higher than the mountain of his realm, glowing with artificial stars. Moving boxes- vehicles he remembered- rushed by. The didn't breath like his underworld; it trembled with mechanical life.

He tried to summon shadow.

Nothing.

He tried to speak ancient tongue.

only silence.

A flare of panic rose in his chest- foreign and choking. Fear. He who had once ruled death itself, was afraid.

Amile was late again.

She balanced a half eaten sandwich in one hand, a textbook in other, and tried not to trip over a mysterious man standing in the middle of sidewalk like he was starring in a Shakespearean meltdown.

She swerved around him but caught a glimpse. Tall. Raven-haired. Barefoot? His eyes were… odd. Not insane-odd. Ancient-odd.

She turned back. He was still staring at the sky like it had betrayed him personally.

“You good, sir?” she asked.

No response.

“I mean, standing in the middle of the Place like that, you’re either very lost or a street performer. Ten points if you're both.”

He slowly turned his head. His gaze locked onto hers—and something flickered in his eyes. Recognition?

“You… see me?”

Amile raised an eyebrow. “I have two eyes and basic peripheral vision. Yeah.”

He stepped forward. “They’re not supposed to.”

“Who’s not supposed to what now?”

“You’re not one of them.”

“Excuse me?”

“The mortals.”

She blinked. “Wow. Okay. You’re either high or deep in a mythological roleplay. I dig the vibe, though. Very intense. Love the robes.”

He looked down. He was wearing tattered, ancient robes—black and ash-grey, embroidered with silver glyphs. No wonder people ignored him. They probably thought he was promoting a temple drama.

“I am Erevan,” he said flatly.

“…Cool. And I’m Wonder Woman. Come on, let’s get you off the street.”

She reached for his arm. The moment her skin touched his, a flash of cold surged through her spine. Like winter itself had blinked.

She yanked her hand back.

“What was that?”

Erevan stared at her. Something had shifted. The mark on his chest—the brand of exile—glowed faintly.

He should have been invisible to all mortals.

Except her.

Who was this girl?

Later that evening, Erevan sat stiffly on a metal bench outside a coffee shop while Amile bought two cup of coffee and tried to make sense of her impulsiveness. She never helped strange men who thought they were gods. But something about his presence made her stay.

She handed him a cup.

He stared at it like it was a bomb.

“You drink it,” she said. “It’s coffe.”

He sniffed it. “It smells like burnt leaves and—heat.”

“You’re not wrong.”

He sipped.

He froze.

Then stared at the cup like it had just explained the secrets of the universe.

“This is… divine.”

She grinned. “You have no idea.”

Back in her tiny apartment, Amile flipped open her mythology notes. The name Erevan wasn’t listed anywhere.

But something about him tugged at a deep part of her memory. Not just from books—but from dreams. Forgotten ones. Shadows whispering her name.

And tonight, one of them had spoken aloud.

Who was this man?

And why did the moment she touched him… feel like something in her soul had woken up?

Amile told herself she was being reckless.

Strangers didn’t follow you home. Men who claimed to be gods weren’t welcome on your couch. And yet, there he was—Erevan—sitting on the edge of her old sofa like it might attack him, his sharp eyes scanning the room like he was still trying to figure out what era he had landed in.

She offered him a blanket.

He took it like it was a sacred relic.

“So,” she said, arms crossed, “you want to tell me again who you are? Slowly this time?”

“I told you already,” he said. “Erevan. God of the Forgotten Dead. Keeper of the Underworld’s third gate. Son of the Shadow Flame.”

Amile raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought your full name would just be Erevan Something.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “I was cursed.”

“By?”

“The Celestial Court. I broke the law of divine interference. I… helped someone I wasn’t supposed to.”

He said the last part with a flicker of shame. It startled her. Gods weren’t supposed to sound guilty.

“And now what?” she asked. “You’re stuck here?”

He nodded once. “Stripped of power. Stranded in the mortal realm. Invisible to all except—”

“Me,” she finished.

They stared at each other.

The silence thickened like a storm about to break.

Amile cleared her throat. “Right. Okay. So, hypothetically, if you really are a god—and that’s a big if—why can I see you?”

I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “I wasn’t supposed to be seen at all. But when you touched me, something… shifted.”

He looked almost afraid to say it.

“You marked me.”

Amile blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stood, taking a few slow steps toward her. “Your energy—your soul—it carries an echo. An imprint. From the old world.”

Amile backed up until her knees hit the bookshelf. “Now you’re sounding like one of those cult podcasts.”

Erevan tilted his head. “You joke too much.”

“You threaten too much,” she shot back. “Welcome to Earth. We cope with sarcasm.”

For a second, the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. But it vanished.

That night, Amile couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed staring at her ceiling fan as Erevan meditated like a statue in the living room.

There was something wrong with this entire situation. And yet, something about him felt... familiar.

Not just in the way one recognizes myths—but deeper. Like a story she used to know by heart and forgot until now.

She turned to her side and whispered into the dark, “Why do you feel like a memory?”

Erevan didn’t sleep. Gods didn’t.

But tonight, he wanted to.

He wanted to close his eyes and not think of what he had lost—his throne, his power, the respect of the other immortals. But more than anything, he didn’t want to think about her—this mortal girl with fire in her voice and questions in her eyes.

The kind of girl who wasn’t afraid to talk back to a god.

He had met thousands of souls in his underworld. Warriors, priests, kings, monsters. He’d never met anyone like her.

She shouldn’t be able to see him.

Unless…

Unless she had once been part of his story.

The next morning, Erevan sat motionless as Amile made breakfast in the tiny kitchen.

She turned around with a plate of toast and paused.

He was staring at her again.

“Okay, seriously,” she said, “if you keep doing the brooding stare thing, I’m gonna start charging rent.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not afraid of me.”

“Should I be?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“Then maybe you’re not as terrifying as you think.”

She placed the toast in front of him. He stared at it like he wasn’t sure how to eat it.

“You're not gonna try to soul-summon it, are you?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

She laughed.

And for the first time since his fall, Erevan felt something stir inside him.

Something soft.

Something dangerous.

After breakfast, Amile took him outside. He flinched at the sunlight.

“Still sensitive to divine judgment?” she teased.

“No,” he muttered, shielding his eyes. “I just think your sun is… too cheerful.”

They walked down the street, and Erevan watched everything—the shops, the children, the sounds of traffic—as if it was all unreal. Which, for him, it was.

Then he stopped cold.

On the side of a crumbling old building was a faded mural. A woman painted in charcoal and gold, holding a burning lamp, her eyes fierce and haunting.

Erevan stepped closer.

“What is it?” Amile asked.

He didn’t speak.

Because he recognized the woman.

The priestess who once betrayed him.

The one who sealed his fate.

The one who wore Amile’s face.

The doorbell chimed as Amile pushed open the café’s glass door, her backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in hand, and a six-foot divine anomaly trailing behind her like a stormcloud with legs.

“Okay,” she said in a low voice, “don’t touch anything, don’t talk to anyone, and for god’s sake—ironic, I know—don’t look at the espresso machine like it’s a cursed artifact.”

Erevan barely blinked. “That machine hisses and spits steam. It is cursed.”

“It’s Italian,” Amile replied dryly. “It’s supposed to hiss.”

The café, a small cozy nook called Books & Brews, was tucked into a quiet corner of Old city, filled with second-hand books, lazy jazz, and warm smells of cinnamon and ink. Amile worked here part-time, shelving poetry books and mislabeling self-help ones. It paid poorly, but it came with free coffee and a table in the back where she could work on her thesis on lost mythologies.

Erevan stood out like a ripped page in a perfect novel. Even in the oversized hoodie and jeans she made him wear—borrowed from her cousin, no less—he held himself like a lion pretending to be a house cat. His eyes flicked to every corner like he was assessing threats. Or escape routes.

You can sit there,” she gestured toward the table in the far corner. “Do not brood too hard or people will think you’re an art student.”

Erevan narrowed his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see.”

By the time her shift started, Amile was already questioning her decision.

Erevan was behaving—mostly. He sat quietly in the corner, his eyes scanning the room like a soldier in enemy territory. Every so often, his gaze would find her behind the counter, and it lingered—not in the way other men stared—but as if he were trying to decode her, unearth her from memory.

She tried not to let it fluster her.

Emphasis on tried.

But when she passed his table an hour later and caught him reading one of her myth books upside-down, she sighed. “You’re not exactly blending in.”

“I am observing your world,” he said calmly.

“You look like you’re trying to hex it.”

He looked thoughtful. “Could I?

No.”

“Not even a small one?”

“No.”

Around noon, the café filled with its usual regulars—an elderly english poet with sad eyes, a couple arguing in whispers, and that one guy who always ordered a cappuccino and never tipped.

Erevan noticed something she didn’t.

In the far corner, near the fiction aisle, the shadows were moving.

They rippled subtly, like a reflection on water—then stretched unnaturally, curling toward the floor like fingers reaching for something unseen.

Erevan stood abruptly.

Amile noticed and rushed over. “What’s wrong?”

“Something’s here,” he said quietly.

“What kind of something?”

He didn't answer. Instead, he walked straight toward the corner, stepping around chairs, ignoring confused stares from customers. Amile followed, her heart thudding.

The moment they reached the fiction shelf, Erevan's eyes darkened.

In the space between two towering bookshelves, a small patch of unnatural darkness pulsed softly. It didn’t belong. It flickered like a void trying to hold form.

Amile felt it too.

Cold. Still. Hungry.

Step back,” Erevan said, placing a hand protectively in front of her.

He lifted his other hand, fingers splayed.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then, a shimmer of black curled from his palm—weak and unsteady, like the last breath of a dying fire.

The shadow in the corner shivered.

The pulse of it faltered.

Then it vanished.

Erevan staggered slightly.

“Are you okay?” Amile asked, grabbing his arm.

He looked down at his hand, surprised. “My power... responded.”

“Because of me?”

“Because of something.”

A beat passed between them.

She looked up. “Was that thing... from your world?”

“No,” he said slowly. “That wasn’t one of mine. That was sent to find me.”

“By who?”

“The ones who cursed me,” he said. “The celestial court. They’re watching. Which means…”

“...they know you're not alone.”

That night, back at her apartment, Amile made him coffee without asking.

Erevan sat by the window, looking out over the city’s glowing skyline, lost in thought. The shadow encounter had shaken him more than he let on.

“I thought this curse was exile,” he said finally. “But if they’re sending things to track me… maybe it’s something else.”

“Like what?”

He turned toward her. “A test.”

Amile handed him the cup. “What happens if you fail?”

“They erase me completely,” he said. “No memory, no legacy. Not even dust.”

Amile swallowed. “That’s... heavy.”

Erevan looked at her—really looked.

“You’re not just anyone, Amile. You’re connected to all this. I don’t know how yet, but I can feel it. You’re a thread from the world I lost.”

She met his gaze. “I’m just a girl with overdue student loans.”

“Maybe,” he said softly. “Or maybe you’re the reason I fell in the first place.”