He swear he knows that man.

It’s the middle of the 19th century, and everything is changing. Well - it is to most people, anyway. Jon’s not sure if he’s the only one that reincarnates or simply the only one that remembers it, but it doesn’t particularly matter. The specifics of it won’t change anything. Jon’s been here for a rather long time - since the Egyptians, at least. Before that it gets a little fuzzy.

But that man, the one in rather fancy clothing talking to some employee or another at this Magnus Institute - Jon knows him.

This is impossible. Nobody Jon has known is alive now, and he doesn’t befriend anyone, long since used to the cycle of getting close with people and then losing them to disease or injury or war or just plain old age. Inside of him is a well of grief that he has not touched in a very long time. And something inside of that well, perhaps the last part of him that is capable of retaining a desire for connection, is screaming “I recognise him!” like a baby bird begging to be fed.

He keeps catching on the eyes. Something about those eyes is pulling at him, trying to tear through the thick blanket he has covered his well of grief with, get to whatever is inside and pull it out, like a tree, or loose tooth.

Impossible.

The sensation is so strong that he barely remembers what he came here for, but he recalls it easily enough. The Magnus Institute is dedicated to researching the supernatural, the paranormal, the strange. He knows he’s a case of this, and he knows if he were discovered it would be very bad for him.

There are the Archives, supposedly real, first hand accounts of supernatural experiences or encounters, but they are likely to be rather bare bones, so he’s checking the library.

“Right,” he mutters to himself, and heads to the library, perhaps quicker than he must. This is why he misses the man’s eyes tracking him across the Institute’s lobby with curiosity and recognition.