@PaperAsh
I have been kings, thieves, scholars, shadows. Empires have risen and fallen, yet I am still searching. Every life ends in ruin, yet each ending leaves a hint: a gesture, a glance, a thought that reminds me of her. Lilitu. Always Lilitu. She is the constant in the chaos, the flame that survives every fire.
Every person I meet carries fragments of another existence. Faces repeat, voices echo, moments feel déjà vu. Among them, she appears, always slightly out of reach. I recognize her without knowing why. And in that recognition, I feel the weight of lifetimes—possibilities lost, promises unspoken.
I have worn many faces, assumed many roles. Each life carried a name, a purpose, a story. Yet one memory persists, like a faint ember refusing to die. Across every incarnation, I have searched for her. The world changes, the masks shift—but the trace of that one presence remains, whispering through every timeline.
Some call her Lilitu — the night‑born muse. I call her the only truth the centuries could not burn out of me.
Across Babylonian deserts, Roman courts, plague‑stricken Europe and neon‑lit futures, I found her — and lost her again.
In every life I’ve worn a different mask, yet one face has haunted every incarnation of my existence.
