His name was Ravi.
He lived halfway across the world, in a quiet town where the sea met cliffs, and the fog arrived like a ritual. He wasn't famous. He wasn't lost. He wasn't extraordinary in the ways people measure on paper.
But he had a feeling too.
A presence.
It began like a whisper in the back of his mind—a nudge that something or someone was missing, though he couldn't explain what. Some mornings, he'd wake up with a strange warmth in his chest, like a memory he couldn't place. Like someone had dreamt of him.
He often walked to the edge of the cliffs with his camera. He didn't take photos for work anymore—just for himself. Faces. Silence. Shadows. He loved capturing people who didn't know they were being seen. There was something sacred in those in-between moments, before the pose, before the smile.
One day, years ago, a friend had taken a photo of him on that same cliff. It wasn't planned. Just one of those moments where you look away and someone sees you.
He never thought much of it.
But lately, he'd been wondering about it again.
Wondering why it felt like someone, somewhere, was holding that memory with more care than he ever did.
He didn't know her name.
He didn't know if she was real.
But sometimes, just sometimes, he found himself glancing toward strangers on the street, his heart catching for no reason, like his soul had mistaken someone for someone it hadn't met yet.
And when it passed, he'd smile to himself and whisper, "Soon, maybe."