Every Friday at precisely seven in the evening, Lydia came to a small bar in the city center, sat in her usual corner by the window, and ordered the same thing—a glass of red wine. She always sat alone, dressed elegantly yet unpretentiously, with a certain glint in her eyes that made it seem like she was waiting for someone.

One day, the waitress, Emma, couldn’t hold back her curiosity anymore. She approached Lydia and asked, with a friendly but cautious smile, “Why do you come here alone every week?”

Lydia looked up at her, amused, and replied, “I’m waiting for my husband.” Emma’s eyes widened; she’d worked at the bar for months and had never seen anyone join Lydia.

“Is he… running late?” Emma couldn’t resist asking, feeling an odd tension.

“No,” Lydia replied with a small smile, lifting her glass. “He just doesn’t know he’s married to me yet.” She raised her glass to Emma and smiled mysteriously, as if she were already sharing a toast with her future husband.

From that night on, the bar buzzed with rumors. Some whispered that Lydia was a psychic; others thought it was just a quirky joke. But then, after a few weeks, a man did join Lydia. No one in the bar had seen him before.

The man, a few years her senior, with graying hair and gentle, tired eyes, sat down with her. They exchanged a few quiet laughs, leaned in close, and became engrossed in conversation, as if no one else existed. Their weekly meetings became a fixture of the bar’s atmosphere.

Then, one Friday, the man didn’t show up. Lydia sat quietly, looking out the window, her usual spark dimmer, but she showed no sign of distress.

After a few weeks of his absence, Emma finally asked her, “Lydia, what happened to your… friend?”

Lydia looked at her, her eyes distant. “He’s gone now, Emma,” she said softly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry…” Emma murmured.

“Don’t be.” Lydia’s smile was sad but accepting. “I met him exactly as I was supposed to… years before he ever saw me.”

Emma’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Lydia leaned in and whispered, “You see, Emma, I always knew I would meet him here. Like meeting a ghost… an echo of something that never happened in my life.”

Emma was speechless. “Like… a ghost?”

Lydia nodded, her expression both wistful and resolute. “That man was my husband in another life, a life that only ever existed in my thoughts and dreams. We were simply… too late for each other in this one.”