Kaelen relented, worry still etched across his face, and arranged a trusted taxi company to take me back. He always thought two steps ahead—especially when it came to my safety.
I never tried to act tough, please... I didn't have a Wonder Woman complex. I was just being practical. We both have no time to waste. Same as now. I lived in the suburbs.Have a driver taking me home was enough.
But his messages came constantly, like he needed to make sure I'd be okay during the half-hour ride. The usually congested roads were smooth that late at night.
Home," I sent a succinct message.
Rest well, sayang," he replied.
Do let me know if there's anything that comes up." Ooh... it's his consecutive message.
I sent him a heart emoji.
I'm fine, sayang. Thanks for being a good host."
I have to. Need to pass your appraisal."
I rolled my eyes and chuckled. He always said things like that—half-serious, half-flirty.
Good night, Kaelen."
I placed my phone on the nightstand, washed up, and changed into my sleep clothes—a soft tank top and worn bubbly shorts.
[…]
But sleep didn't come. Not yet.
I had dozed off earlier—in his arms, maybe half an hour—but now the stillness of my room pressed in. My body was tired. My thoughts weren't.
That vision earlier—misty forest, the eyes that were Kaelen's but not Kaelen, the voice—still lingered. I couldn't brush it off. I was sure now: it was connected to him.
I sighed.
So I did what I always did when past lives clawed their way back.
I sat cross-legged on my bed.
Closed my eyes. Began to breathe.
Inhale.
Hold and deepen as the breath went further.
Exhale...
Fire...
I saw fire all around me. Flames crackling, rising like a wall—red, orange, furious. But instead of heat, I felt cold. Bone-deep cold.
People circled the fire, shouting curses, spitting at me. Their faces twisted in rage and fear. They wore rough, patched clothes—some with scraps of animal fur, others with bark. People of an ancient village.
I was tied to a wooden pole, bark rope biting into my wrists. Beneath me, dry logs were stacked like a pyre.
Like I was a sacrifice—offering me would save thousands of lives.
A calamity. A threat.
I turned my head and saw him—a man—enraged. I had never seen him so furious. He fought fiercely below, but the crowd eventually subdued him, held him down. His long white robes were streaked with dirt. His silver hair disheveled.
The priest. My foster father.
Tears blurred my vision. I couldn't bear seeing him like this.
"Please! Release my father!" I screamed, my throat raw.
I cared for him more than I cared for my body.
Our eyes met. His were full of pain.
We both knew. We had to let go.
He whispered hoarsely, "Child… please, close your eyes."
They struck him with a log. I saw blood spill from his head as he crumpled to the ground.
The fire surged—louder, closer.
And I did as I was told. I closed my eyes.
With a long, deep breath, I let the vision go.
I sat still, chest heavy, trying to regulate my breathing.
A familiar ache settled in—the kind that always followed these memories.
I felt like cursing myself.
Another vision. Another past life.
And again, it began with how I died.
Somehow, it always starts there—at the end.
I exhaled sharply, a quiet huff of frustration.
It was never easy.
It never felt good to know how your life ended—even if it was lifetimes ago.
The day was done.
It was past midnight, and I still needed to sleep.