"What… what are you… who are you?"
Her voice trembled, fragile and breaking against the silence.
The man in the doorway didn't move. The light from the corridor carved a sharp line down his face, half in shadow, and half aglow. His gaze, dark and calm, swept the room once before it settled briefly on her.
He recovered from his shock immediately, and picked up his bag he once dropped.
"I believe you have the wrong room," he said, his tone even, and polite.
Amara's throat tightened. "No. This is… this is my suite."
He blinked once, slow and deliberate. "That's not possible. The reservation is under my name."
Her heartbeat faltered. "Your name?"
He dropped his suitcase by the desk and straightened, his movements too practiced, and too controlled. Like he had no reason to be surprised. "Michelle."
The name hit her like ice water. She almost laughed. It was disbelief, hysteria, and heartbreak all tangled together.
"Michelle…" she whispered.
He said nothing. He just kept on watching her like she was a stranger intruding on his space.
"You…" She took a step forward, her bare feet cold against the floor. "You're alive."
His jaw ticked just slightly, but his voice remained neutral. "Miss, if you're feeling unwell, I can call the front desk."
"I'm not unwell," she shot back, her voice rising. "You—"
"Please," he said, cutting her off, calm and precise. "You should contact reception. They'll correct this mistake immediately."
Her lips parted, trembling. "You don't even—"
He turned away, lifting his suitcase, opening it, and methodically unpacking as if she weren't even there. "You can use the phone on the nightstand."
The sound of his voice was cold, and unfeeling. It felt wrong. Like something sacred had been mutilated.
Amara took another step forward. "You really don't recognize me?"
His hand stilled for half a second before he zipped the bag shut. "I meet many people," he said without looking up.
She laughed softly, bitterly. "You're serious."
"I'm certain you'll be able to sort this out quickly," he replied. "It's late. You should get some rest somewhere more appropriate."
Her chest tightened painfully. "Somewhere more appropriate? This was my reservation. My room."
"I see," he said. "Then it's a management error."
He finally turned then, slowly, as if forcing himself to. His eyes met hers, steady and empty. There was no warmth, no flicker of recognition, and not even a little trace of the man she'd once known.
However, something in the stillness between them screamed otherwise.
Amara's breath caught. "You can't just stand there and pretend—"
"I'm not pretending," he said evenly. "I don't know you."
The words were simple, yet flat. However, they cut so deep that her vision blurred.
"Michelle," she whispered again, like saying it might tear through whatever cruel performance he was keeping. "Is that what you go by now?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and held it out to her. "Would you like me to call the front desk for you?"
Her throat tightened painfully. "Stop saying that."
He frowned faintly, polite confusion etched across his face. "Saying what?"
"Like I'm some stranger who walked into the wrong room."
He paused.
Then, quietly. Almost too quietly, he questioned. "Aren't you?"
Her heart splintered.
She stared at him, at the faint scar at his jaw, the hair that was slightly longer than she remembered, and the immaculate precision of his suit. His every movement screamed distance.
But his hands…
They trembled. Just barely.
Her voice broke. "You died. I buried you."
He said nothing.
"I—" She swallowed hard. "I saw your body. I saw—"
"Miss," he interrupted, the word formal, and sterile. "Please. This conversation is making you emotional. Let's not create a scene."
Her breath came in uneven gasps. "A scene?"
He adjusted his cufflinks. "I'm asking politely."
"You're asking me to leave?"
"I'm asking you to handle this through the proper channel."
She laughed through the tears that threatened to spill. "The proper channel? You mean reception?"
"Yes."
He moved toward the window, unhurried, opening the curtains slightly as if to distance himself from her grief. "I'll wait until the staff arrives. You can take your things and move to the adjacent suite."
Amara's lips trembled. "You're unbelievable."
"I apologize for the inconvenience."
"Inconvenience?" She took a shaky step toward him. "You were dead. You were—"
He turned sharply this time. "Enough."
The word snapped through the air like a whip.
For a long, still moment, neither of them moved.
Then he exhaled slowly, adjusting his tone back to calm civility. "I don't know what you think you've found here, Miss. But I assure you, I am not the person you're confusing me for."
"You are," she whispered. "You can lie, you can dress it in that voice, that name, but you are."
He looked away. "Please, leave."
"I won't."
"Then I will."
He walked past her, each step deliberate. His shoulder brushed hers, and the contact was enough to freeze her completely.
It was him. The warmth, the scent, and the way her skin recognized him before her mind could catch up.
He stopped at the door, one hand gripping the handle, the knuckles white. His voice was low, tightly controlled. "You should call the front desk now."
She took a breath. "E—"
"Don't."
Her throat closed.
He didn't look back, but his voice cracked ever so slightly on the next word. "Don't call me that."
And then, before she could say another word, he opened the door, stepped out, and let it close softly behind him.
Amara stood frozen, staring at the space he'd just left. The silence pressed down on her chest until she could hardly breathe.
Her vision blurred. Her knees weakened. She sank slowly to the floor, the weight of what just happened collapsing through her like glass breaking inward.
He was alive.
He was here.
And he had looked at her like she was no one at all.