You, the Whisper Across Lifetime

Chapter 12: Between Silence and Knowing

It had been a week since that late-night call—when I finally told Kaelen about our past life. Since then, everything outside had continued to shift. The pandemic had entered its second semester, dragging time with it.

Our housing complex was officially closed to outside visitors. People had grown used to ordering everything online—groceries, medicine, even prayer offerings. In the village, restrictions weren't as strict as in the city, but the change was still obvious. The main street, usually full of motorbikes and gossiping neighbors, had gone still. The community playground—once alive with children screaming and chasing shuttlecocks—now sat silent, forgotten. The sound of laughter, the bounce of a ping-pong ball—gone. Everything felt sedated. Like the world was holding its breath.

My brother's family moved into our parents' house from their apartment in the city. They quarantined themselves upstairs for a while, just to be safe. Then, slowly, the house filled again—voices during mealtime, the smell of cooking, small footsteps running down the stairs. My niece and nephew finally joined us around the table. The boys took over the living room corner for online school and endless games on their computers.

Our house, though still wrapped in caution, pulsed with life again.

But inside me, a different kind of pulse remained. Quiet. Tense.

For myself, work had slowly adjusted. Everything moved online—presentations, meetings, check-ins. It felt strange at first, sitting in front of a screen to speak about goals and strategies while the world outside felt suspended. But I got used to it. Everyone did.

He messaged me:

"What happened after that?"

We hadn't chatted much lately—just quick "good morning" or "goodnight" texts. He's been busy and I believed him. So I knew exactly what he meant. He wasn't asking about my day. He meant the past life I had told him about a week ago.

I stared at the screen for a while before replying.

> "I knew my end in that life. The end of that segment of my journey." Sent.

> "Believe me, when you have abilities like mine, the first thing you ask is—was it real? Or just imagination?" I reply to him in paused messages.

> "Even after you learn to handle it… it still feels heavy. Stifling."

> "For me, every past life memory starts from the end. From my death."

> "I've gotten used to it, in a way. But I still don't know how to explain it to others."

He replied a few minutes later.

"I believe you."

Just that. No questioning. No "how" or "why."

Then another message came in.

"You don't need to explain it to me, sayang. Just tell it like it is."

It was simple. But somehow, it broke something open in me.

I sat with the phone in my hand, screen still glowing, heart strangely quiet. Because in that moment, I realized—I didn't need to convince him. I didn't need to protect him from what I saw, or protect myself from the fear of being dismissed. He already knew, in his own way. Felt it, like I did. Maybe not with visions, but with the same ache I'd carried.

"Thank you," I typed back.

Then paused.

And added,

"But you should know... it wasn't a happy ending."

He responded quickly.

"I didn't expect it to be."

Another pause.

"Tell me anyway."

I stared at that message for a while. A long while.

Then finally, I started to type.

Slowly. One line at a time.

Letting the memory come—not all at once, but gently, the way an old scar sometimes aches before it speaks.

I told him what I saw about my end.

I didn't give him every detail—just enough. Enough for him to understand that I had died young in that life, and that I had died before we could meet again. That it wasn't violent, but it was painful. Quiet, but heavy. A kind of fading that left things unfinished.

He didn't ask for more. Maybe he couldn't yet. Maybe he already knew.

After that, I set the phone aside and went to sit in the backyard. The air was cool, still holding the quiet weight of the day. I folded myself onto the mat beneath the guava tree, closed my eyes, and breathed.

I needed to clear my mind. But something lingered.

A sadness. A strange, quiet ache that pressed against my chest—not sharp, but persistent. Like loss. But not mine.

I sat with it. I didn't try to push it away. Just let it move.

And slowly, the images came again—not from my memory this time, but through something else. Something outside of me.

His memory.

Kaelen.

The ache I felt wasn't mine—it was his.

What came next didn't feel like vision or dream. It was something in between. Like sitting in someone else's emotion and letting it unfold into images. I saw him. Alone. In a stone temple hall. It became ruins with moss covering part of it from wood.

He was wearing his knight robe, standing still, then bent down collecting something. My beaded rocks?

I saw how he looked toward the mountains. Toward the forest. Waiting for someone who never came.

And then I understood.

It wasn't just me. It's was him who didn't get to say goodbye.

We both had been left with an unfinished ending.