I gape, eyes wide, uncomprehending. What could this painting—this century-old version of me—have anything to do with us—the way we are now?

“Would you like to meet him?” he asks, gaze shadowed, distant, difficult to read.

“Bastiaan?” The name oddly comfortable on my lips.

Damen nods, willing to manifest him if I’ll only agree. But just as I’m about to refuse, he places his hand on my arm and says, “I think you should. It only seems fair.”

I take a deep breath, focusing on the warmth of his hand as he closes his eyes in deep concentration, summoning a tall, rangy, slightly disheveled guy from what was once empty space. Letting go of my arm as he moves away, allowing me plenty of room in which to study, observe, before we run out of time and he fades.

I move toward him, walking slow, wide circles around this blank, hollow stranger—this bright, empty, creation—soulless, unreal.

Noting his traits in an offhand way—the height making him appear even slighter, the hint of lean, sinewy muscle lightly padding his bones—the clothes that are clean and of decent quality and cut, hanging slightly off kilter, the skin so pale and flawless it nearly matches my own, while his hair is dark, wavy, brushed to the side, a good chunk of bang falling heavily into a startling pair of eyes.

I gasp, forcing the air into my lungs as he soon fades away, hearing Damen say, “Would you like me to refresh him again?” Obviously hating to do so, but willing to oblige if I ask.

But I just continue to stand there, staring into a swirl of vibrating pixels that soon vanish completely. Knowing I don’t need him revived to know who he is.

Jude.

The guy who was standing before me, the Dutch artist who went by the name of Bastiaan de Kool in the nineteenth century—has now reincarnated into this century as Jude.

I reach for something to steady me, feeling shaky, empty, off balance. Realizing too late that there’s nothing to catch me, until Damen quickly moves to my side.

“Ever!” he cries, voice so urgent it resonates to my core, his arms tightening around me, shielding me in a way that feels just like home. Manifesting a soft, plushy couch where he guides me to sit, his gaze hovering over me, anxious, unnerved, having no intention of upsetting me like this.

I turn, holding my breath as my eyes meet his, afraid of finding something different, something changed, now that it’s all laid out in the open. Now that we both know it wasn’t always just him.

That there was once someone else.

And I know him today.

“I don’t—” I shake my head, feeling embarrassed, guilty, as though I’ve somehow betrayed him by unknowingly seeking him out. “I’m not sure what to say—I—”

Damen shakes his head, his hand at my cheek, drawing me near. “Don’t think that,” he says. “None of this is your fault. You hear me? None of it. It’s just karma.” He pauses, gaze holding mine. “It’s just unfinished business—so to speak.”

“But what could be unfinished?” I ask, having an inkling of an idea of where this is going and refusing to take part in that journey. “That was over a hundred years ago! And like you said, it was over before the paint even—”

But before I can get there, he’s shaking his head, hand on my cheek, my shoulder, my knee, as he says, “I’m no longer so sure about that.”

I look at him, fighting the urge to pull away. Wishing he’d stop. Wanting to leave. No longer liking it here.

“It seems I’ve interfered,” he says, face hard, judgmental, though it’s a judgment reserved only for him. “It seems I have a habit of intruding on your life, meddling in decisions that should’ve been yours. Pushing a fate that”—he pauses, jaw clenched, gaze steady, though his lip quivers in a way that reveals the price of all this—“that was never meant to be yours—”

“What are you talking about?” I cry, voice high, urgent, sensing the energy surrounding his words, and knowing it’s about to get worse.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He looks at me, the light in his eyes fractured into millions of bits—a kaleidoscope of darkness that may never be fixed.

He rises from the couch in one quick, sinuous move until he’s filling the space just before me. But before he can speak, before he can make things even worse, I rush ahead when I say, “This is ridiculous! All of it! Everything! It’s destiny that’s brought us together again and again. We’re soul mates! You said it yourself! And from what I’ve learned, that’s exactly how it works—soul mates find each other, time and again, against all odds, no matter what!” I reach for his hand but he’s slipped just out of reach, pacing before me, avoiding my touch.

“Destiny?” He shakes his head, voice harsh, gaze cruel, but all of it directed inwardly. “Was it destiny when I purposely roamed the earth in search of you—over and over again—unable to rest until I’d found you?” He stops, eyes meeting mine. “Tell me Ever, does that sound like destiny to you? Or something that was forced?”

I start to speak, lips parting wide though no words will come, watching as he turns toward the wall and stares at the girl. That proud and beautiful girl whose gaze moves right past him—toward somebody else.

“Somehow I was able to ignore all of this, push it aside for the last four hundred years, convincing myself it was our fate, that you and I were meant to be. But the other day, when you dropped by after work, I sensed something different—a shift in your energy. And then last night, at the store—I knew.