You, the Whisper Across Lifetime

Chapter 4: The Weight of Memory

It was almost midnight when I finally reached home. Kaelen had arranged a trusted taxi company to take me back—he always thought two steps ahead, especially when it came to my safety.

Why didn't I ask him to take me home? The answer was simple: it wasn't practical. He was staying downtown, and my place was far out in the suburbs. I live in a metropolitan city, after all—efficiency matters.

Besides, I've never been the kind of woman who expects her boyfriend to drive her everywhere. I've always believed in meeting halfway, in being fair. Being rational is the key. Maybe too rational, sometimes.

I messaged Kaelen to let him know I was home safe.

"Rest well, sayang," he replied.

But sleep didn't come. Not yet. I had dozed off briefly in his arms earlier—just a short half hour—but now, the stillness of my room pressed in around me. My body was tired, but my thoughts... my thoughts were shaking.

That vision earlier—the forest, the fire, the voice—I couldn't brush it off. I was sure now: it was connected to Kevin.

I changed into my sleep clothes—a soft tank top and worn snickers—and sat cross-legged on my bed. I closed my eyes and began to breathe.

Inhale. Exhale. Let the noise fall away.

And that's when it came.

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, some with tree bark. People of 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 something loathsome. A calamity. To be erased. Like my being alive would be disastrous. The more reason for me to be sacrificed.

I turned my head and saw him—a man being held down by the crowd. He was struggling and fought them, his long white robes streaked with dirt, his hair as pale as snow.

The priest. My foster father.

He had raised me in silence, kept me hidden, loved me with the kind of devotion that asked nothing in return. His benevolent blue eyes— filled with sorrow—locked with mine.

"Please! Release my father!" I screamed, my throat raw, tears burning my cheeks. I care for him more than my body.

He looked at me with aching gentleness.

"Child... I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "Child....Please, close your eyes."

He struggled until they struck him with a log. I saw blood spill from his head, and he crumpled to the ground.

The fire surged louder, closer.

And I did as I told. I closed my eyes.

---

With a long, deep breath, I let the vision go.

I sat still, my chest heavy, I was 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.

I exhaled sharply, a quiet huff of frustration. It was never easy. Never clean.

It never felt good to know how your life ended—even if you knew it was centuries ago.

I felt today was enough. It was past midnight and I still need to sleep.