You, the Whisper Across Lifetime

Chapter 8 Days That Stilled

Eventually, we settled into the new rhythm of restricted days. Life in the village moved slower, but not exactly quiet.

Though we were staying in a village, my parents' house sat along a busy rural road that connected several housing complexes and smaller village lanes. Usually, the road was never quiet—motorcycles, delivery vans, passing conversations. But now, silence lingered more often, interrupted only by the occasional rumble of tires on gravel.

The house was big—built for a large family. These days, only my parents and my youngest sister lived there, but our old rooms remained just as they were. Thankfully, the rooms were adjacent to a shared bathroom, and my eldest brother—ever practical—had insisted on installing hot water. A small touch, but a blessed one, especially for early mornings or nights when the village air turned chilly.

The backyard, though—that was mine.

It was wide and calm. I took to spending more time there: a plot with banana, papaya, guava, and star fruit trees; rows of vegetable patches I had planted; herbs to the side; and a pond full of catfish. The garden became a sanctuary of its own. Birds chirped from time to time. Lizards, geckos, and chameleons made their appearances one by one, like alternating guardians of the space.

I planted easy-harvest vegetables—chili, spinach, basil, tomatoes. Every morning, I'd water them, check on them like greeting old friends. The soil, the air, even the sound of birds—all of it felt more alive when the outside world fell still.

At the same time, this period almost felt like a retreat. I had more time to spend with my parents, to cook simple meals, to walk barefoot around the garden. I spent my evenings in silence, letting the stillness of the village soak into my skin. The nights were especially quiet. No honking cars or city rumble—just the rustle of trees and distant cricket calls.

I dove deeper into my yoga practice—surya namaskar in the morning, chandra namaskar at sunset. I continued with my routine yoga class too, though it had been reduced to once a week through a Zoom meeting.

Still, the vibrations from outside reached me—like it or not. They came on the wind, in the shifting clouds, in the whispers of nature. The world was speaking, and I could feel it.

Lately, my spiritual circle—this quiet brother-sisterhood I belonged to—had started urging each other to pray more often meditate deeper. I knew what that meant. The collective energy was dense. The conditions outside were getting worse.

Kaelen, now out of quarantine, had received a special permit allowing limited travel across mainland countries for work. As always, he was as meticulous with every details—his hygiene protocols sharp, his self-discipline unwavering.

But even with all his precautions, I found myself sensing him. Feeling things through him.

This sense, which surprised me most, was how often I could feel him.

There were moments when a pressure, a certain tug in my chest, told me something was off. And when that happened, I'd message him—just to check. To confirm what I sensed was real, and not just something made up in my head.

Sometimes it came like a wave—a sudden pang of emotion or tightness in my chest. I would message him right away, asking something casual yet specific, just to confirm the sensation I picked up.

"Are you feeling tired?" "Did something happen in your meetings?"

And each time, Kaelen would respond with uncanny accuracy.

"You're connected to me," he once said. "I can feel that now."

I needed to know the connection wasn't one-sided.

It's always better to be safe than smug. And Kaelen—he always seemed to know when I was feeling things out, always met me halfway. Even through the screen, his eyes could reassure me.

"Babe, do you like me?"

I rarely asked him this. Maybe because deep down, I feared the answer—or maybe I already knew.

This time, I asked during a video call. Just the two of us, quiet.

"No. I don't."

His voice was steady, direct. For a moment, I blinked. Caught off guard.

Then he smiled, eyes soft.

"I don't just like you, sayang. I love you."

I rolled my eyes inside my head. Cheesy, I thought. But my face had other plans—my lips were curling up before I could stop them, and I could feel my cheeks flush warm.

"What's the reason?" I pressed, trying to keep a straight tone.

He pointed at his chest.

"No reason," he said, without hesitation. "I just know it. I feel it. You're passionate."

I could see that he sensed something off.

"What is it, sayang?" he asked, his voice warm through the phone.

I hesitated, but the words pushed through. "Would you believe me if I said… this might not be the first time we met? That maybe… we've known each other in a past life?"

"Of course I believe you," he answered without pause. "You're my little shaman."

He smiled. That soft, familiar smile I'd grown to love.

Kaelen knew. He knew about my psychic side, about the things I sometimes saw, felt, sensed. And unlike anyone before him, he never flinched. He never questioned it.

He just… accepted it. Me.

He made it easy to share the things I usually kept hidden—things unseen, unwrapped, strange to others but natural to me.

"What do you see?" he asked gently.

"It was you," I said softly. "You're the one who makes all this happen."

He tilted his head on the screen, eyes narrowing just slightly, curious. "What did I do?"

"You made a promise," I whispered. "A long time ago. And I think that promise... it set everything in motion. The memories, the visions—they all came rushing back after I met you. Like something deep inside me flipped open. But it's not just memory. It's the feeling. That certainty whispering, this isn't wrong. This was always meant to be."

He didn't speak right away. Just looked at me—the way he always does. Like I'm something sacred.

"You make it sound like fate," he said at last, voice low. "Like I'm just following a map that leads back to you."

I nodded slowly. "Maybe you are."

And just like that, the veil between now and then... thinned.