Ordinary

In the heart of New York City, where neon lights cast long shadows over the concrete jungle, Aiden moved like a specter among the masses. His disguise was impeccable; to the world, he was just another man in a black trench coat, his silver hair tied back, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses even at night. But beneath this veneer, he was a witch of ancient power, his life spanning over a thousand years, spent in the relentless pursuit of demons. The city was a playground for dark forces, and Aiden had made it his hunting ground.

His coven had long ago turned away from such battles, choosing peace over conflict, but Aiden could not ignore the cries of the innocent. His nights were filled with the hunt, his days with the study of spells that could bind or banish the infernal. It was on this particular evening, under the moon's silver glow, that he found himself in an alley behind an abandoned theater. His latest quarry, a lesser demon with eyes like burning coals, lay vanquished at his feet, its essence dissipating into the night air. But tonight, his heart wasn't in the fight. A whisper, carried on the wind of magic, had reached him-a whisper of a name that hadn't crossed his lips in centuries:

Chantel.

Chantel, his first love, whom he believed lost to time. He had seen her fall in a battle against dark forces 500 years ago, or so he thought. The news was like a bolt from the blue, and it brought with it a storm of emotions he thought he'd buried under centuries of cynicism and solitude. The mere thought of her alive sent his heart racing with a mixture of hope and dread. Aiden made his way to a small, esoteric bookstore in Greenwich Village, a place known in certain circles for its connections to the supernatural community. There, he found Elara, a witch as old as he, whose knowledge of the arcane was matched only by her love for gossip. The bookstore was cluttered with tomes and artifacts, each one vibrating with its own kind of magic.

"Chantel lives?"

Aiden's voice was a mix of hope and disbelief, his usual stoic demeanor cracking like thin ice underfoot. Elara nodded, her eyes twinkling with the thrill of sharing such a secret.

"She's been living under the radar, her memories sealed away. She's in Brooklyn, running a café of all things. 'The Enchanted Brew,' it's called."

Aiden felt a surge of urgency. If Chantel was alive, then their children, whom he had thought long gone, might also be in peril. The Demon King, an entity as old as time itself, was known to covet power, and what better way to harness it than through the bloodline of two of the most potent witches in history? His mind raced with the implications; their children were in danger, perhaps already in the clutches of dark forces. With no time to lose, Aiden made his way to Brooklyn.

The café was quaint, filled with the aroma of herbs and coffee, but there was an undercurrent of magic here, subtle yet undeniable. He saw her through the window, laughter on her lips, her hair a cascade of dark waves-Chantel, unchanged by time, her essence vibrant, a stark contrast to the dark memories he held of her. He entered, the bell above the door chiming, and her eyes met his. There was no recognition there, just curiosity.

"Can I help you?" she asked with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, which were haunted by something she couldn't name. Aiden's heart ached. "Chantel, we need to talk," he said, his voice low, not wanting to scare her or draw attention. She looked at him, puzzled. "Do I know you?" "In another life, yes," Aiden replied, the weight of their shared history heavy in his words. He knew he had to tread carefully. Her memories were locked by magic, likely a protective spell cast by someone who knew the dangers that awaited her if she remembered. They sat at a secluded table where the whispers of the past wouldn't be heard by the mundanes. Aiden explained as much as he could without overwhelming her. He spoke of their love, a passionate affair that had transcended lifetimes, of their children, who were now in peril, and the looming threat from the Demon King. Chantel listened, her expression shifting from confusion to fear, then skepticism. "I can't remember any of this," she whispered, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the table. "Then we must unlock those memories," Aiden said, determination hardening his features. "For our children's sake, for our future." Chantel agreed, not out of belief but out of a deep-seated instinct that urged her to trust him. That night, after the café closed and the city quieted down, they began the ritual. They used the backroom of the café, where the air was thick with the scent of sage and other magical herbs. The ritual required trust, magic, and a love that had never truly died, just slept beneath layers of spells and time. Aiden drew a circle of salt on the floor, placing candles at each cardinal point. He chanted ancient spells, his voice resonant with power, while Chantel held the locket that had once been a symbol of their union. The locket pulsed with a light that matched the rhythm of their beating hearts. But as they prepared, the shadows around them grew darker. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in with the presence of an unseen force. The Demon King's eyes, though not visible, felt like they were fixed upon them, sensing the disturbance in the magic that bound Chantel's memory. The ritual was working; Chantel's eyes began to flicker with the light of recollection, but every flash of memory was met with resistance from the dark spell that had kept her ignorant. The battle for her memories, for their children, and for the rekindling of their love had only just begun. As the night deepened, the struggle between light and darkness intensified, the very fabric of their reality quivering with the potential of what was to come. Aiden knew that unlocking Chantel's memories was only the beginning. They had to prepare for what was coming next, for the Demon King wouldn't stay idle. Together, they stood at the threshold of rediscovering their past, protecting their future, and perhaps, mending the pieces of their broken hearts.