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Dreamjolt Hostelry.
When I arrived at this place—thanks to a passing recommendation from Himeko—I thought little of it: just like another bar to ease the weariness pressing on my shoulders.
I came with purpose. The corridor gleamed with quiet elegance, a hushed luxury that stretched long before revealing the heart of the room. A bar tucked in at the very end, waiting. And at its center stood someone with golden eyes—watching, with the tips of his silver hair fluttering.
This bar … should not have someone like him.
The warmth in the air peeled away the chill clinging to my clothes. A subtle scent lingered—clean, sharp with alcohol, but tinged with something elusive. The faint fragrance of nostalgia.
And then I heard it.
That song.
The same nameless tune that haunts my dreams. No words. No origin. Only a melody that always leaves a quiet ache in my chest when I wake. And here, in the waking world, someone was humming it. A bartender I’d never met—gazing straight into me.I’ve never seen him before. Not here. Not anywhere. Not in any memory I could recall.
I thought the keeper of this place was Siobhan, the official manager of Dreamjolt Hostelry, a name I had heard in passing. But she wasn't here. I thought maybe Siobhan was no longer working and was replaced by that man.
Yet when our eyes met … something loosened inside me. My chest grew light—like something will come. And before I knew it, my steps were carrying me toward him, slow, uncertain.
My eyes locked on him—silver hair shimmering beneath the barlight, a quiet smile resting on his lips. Calm, as if he had always known I’d come.
“Good evening,” he said, not even looking up at first. His voice—low, composed—stirred something deep in me. “Your usual seat is still empty.”
I paused, frowning slightly. My … usual seat?
This was my first visit here.
The other patrons—mostly Morose Monsters—sat at respectful distances along the wide bar. But somehow, my feet moved on their own, guiding me to the fourth stool from the left. The direction he showed me. And strangely, it felt … right.
“I’ve never been here,” I said at last—more to convince myself than to correct him. I remained seated, waiting for my turn to be served.
The bartender only smiled, already pouring something into a tall glass, hands moving with the ease of someone who’s done this countless times. The drink looked unfamiliar. But the scent—it was oddly familiar.
Drifting Wind. A deep glass of wine garnished with a single mint leaf. The flavor was unmistakably … mine.
“I know,” he replied softly. “But this is still your place. Go on. You were going to order that—weren’t you?”
My fingers brushed the side of the glass. Cold. Comforting. A taste I could almost name. But from where?
Surely I wasn’t imagining it—this strange sense that this place, this person, belonged to some forgotten part of me. He hummed again, that same unshakable tune, and something in me ached to remember.
But I didn’t ask. I didn’t push. I simply let the moment unfold, time stretching and softening around me.
Watching him work, watching him smile, flit between patrons, only to return to me again and again—as if I were the only one who truly mattered tonight.
I sipped the drink—just a few times—and the taste filled me with a longing I couldn’t name.
He was waiting for something. My thoughts, perhaps. Or my reaction. But all I could offer was silence. Not from fear. But peace. A quiet I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Seems like Himeko hadn’t been wrong to send me here.
Not for the drink. Not for the ambiance.
But for him.
For the way nostalgia lingers even when you don’t have the words for it. And at some point, without fully realizing it, I found myself speaking—my voice low, cautious, reaching. Reaching toward the truth he carried behind those golden eyes.
“I was just thinking … this place feels like a dream,” I murmured—half to myself. “If I may ask, what’s your name?”
I couldn’t tell how many minutes had slipped by at this bar. Time flowed differently here—slow, hushed, as if the world outside had never truly existed.
Each time I lifted my glass, whether it was the drink—strangely perfect in its flavor—or the sound of that voice … humming the same nameless song.
The same song from my dreams. A melody from a memory I was never meant to have—yet it pulled me deeper, drifting through thoughts I couldn’t place. And still, he hummed. And when I looked at him, everything felt out of place—and yet, perfectly aligned.
“And why do you always hum that tune?” I asked again, my voice nearly drowned by the clinking glasses and murmurs of the other guests. I trusted he heard me—yet all he did was smile, wiping down the bar in front of me.
“Because it’s the song you used to sing.”
I fell silent. “Me?” I echoed, uncertain. “But I never—”
“You forgot,” he said gently, cutting through my denial. “It’s only natural. This timeline … it makes you forget. But I remember.”
I couldn’t look away from his face. That smile—it made something ache inside my chest in a way I couldn’t understand.
As if it came from a hollowed-out place in the past, suddenly filled again with something long buried, now rising to the surface. “And your name?”
I wanted to hear it. Deeper—into the truth behind that unspoken recognition. Because slowly, something in me began to stir … as if being returned. A fragment of memory restored by the drifting wind that carried his spell.
He wasn’t just a bartender who knew my drink. He was someone who had once stood beside me—though I couldn’t say when.
“I feel like …” I hesitated, words escaping me, “Like I know you. But I’m certain we’ve never met.”
He laughed, light and free—untainted by burden or judgment. Just someone relieved. “Of course you feel that way. Because you did know me.”
I waited.
“Dan Heng,” he finally said, voice lowering like a secret being returned. “This isn’t your first time here. And it’s not the first time you’ve spoken to me. Each time you drink from that glass—it takes a little piece. A small memory, one that returns after you’ve deliberately forgotten it, just so no one gets hurt anymore.”
My heart thudded in my chest. My lips parted—but no words came.
“You’ve been here before. Long ago. In another version of this world—or maybe just somewhere unbound by time, like this place. We were once connected,” he said. “But you had to leave. And you … chose to forget, so you wouldn’t feel the pain. You always come here. The same seat. The same nearness to me.”
His words pierced me—but strangely, I didn’t resist.
Only silence remained … and a strange warmth blooming in my chest. One by one, the other patrons began to rise from their seats, as if some quiet bell had rung—reminding them their time here had run out. And my own questions remained scattered, unanswered.
“I never regretted waiting for you,” the man continued—still not answer my asking for his name. His gaze was steady, sincere—too open for someone like me, too serious for his softness. “Because you always come back. Even if you forget me … your heart always knows.”
I couldn’t speak. But for the first time, I reached forward, touched his hand resting on the bar.
Warm. Real. My glass is now empty. And somehow, I felt something within me begin to mend.
I had never asked for anything. But hearing his name … it was enough. The man who held so many quiet mysteries behind his eyes.
And for the first time, that melody felt whole. With lyrics. With an ending. With peace.
“You can call me Caelus,” he said, his gaze deep—carrying something I still could not name. “Welcome home, Dan Heng.” []