♡♡ Healers of Forgotten Home
In sleep, the pain faded. The mansion vanished. I was somewhere brighter. Warmer.
The world I opened my eyes into was bathed in morning light. Not the kind that feels harsh and burning—but soft, golden, and tender, like a lullaby woven out of sunbeams. Dust particles floated lazily in the air, glowing as they passed through the long white curtains swaying in the window's gentle breeze.
I was standing barefoot in a kitchen. The tiles beneath me were cool against my soles, patterned with tiny cracks that looked like veins in marble. Somewhere, a kettle hissed, and the scent of something frying—oil, butter, maybe sugar?—drifted toward me.
I laughed suddenly. The sound surprised me, bubbling up so freely it almost hurt. My stomach tightened with the kind of laughter I hadn't felt in what seemed like forever.
Because across the room, at the stove, was her.
Hair pulled messily into a bun that was already slipping loose. A flour smudge streaked across her cheek like a battle scar she hadn't noticed. She held a pan in one hand, a spatula in the other, moving with dramatic concentration, as if the sizzling food were a test of life or death.
"You're going to burn it again," I teased, leaning against the counter, my grin wide enough to split my face.
She shot me a glare over her shoulder, one brow arching with perfect timing. "Shut up." With a flick of her wrist, she lobbed a wooden spoon toward me.
I caught it, laughing so hard I nearly doubled over. "Is this how you treat your loyal taste tester?"
"Loyal?" she scoffed, flipping whatever was in the pan with more confidence than skill. "You spit out my last pancake like it was poison."
"Correction," I raised the spoon like a sword. "It was poison."
Her lips twitched before breaking into an unwilling smile. "Well, this one's different. This one actually smells edible."
I sniffed exaggeratedly. "Barely."
That earned me another spoon flung in my direction. This time it clattered against the counter and spun in dizzying circles before settling.
"You're impossible," she muttered, but her laughter betrayed her.
"And you," I declared, wagging the spoon I still held, "should never be left alone in a kitchen. When we live together, I'm hiding all the pots."
She turned then, spatula pointed like a weapon, eyes gleaming with fire. "When we live together, I'll be in that dream house we planned. Big garden. Birds. Pets. And a bathtub so huge we can both swim in it."
I gasped in mock horror. "Sharing a bathtub with you? Do you want me to drown?"
"You'd drown in my brilliance, yes." She flipped the pancake—or whatever it was—and almost dropped it on the floor. Her laugh came out like bells.
The moment expanded, stretching like golden taffy. The kitchen seemed bigger than it should have been. Or maybe the air was just heavier with memories I couldn't quite name.
"And," she continued, sliding the food onto a chipped white plate, "no husbands allowed unless they're perfect."
I leaned back against the counter, raising an eyebrow. "Perfect? You mean… mythological creatures? Because men like that don't exist."
"They do," she argued, stabbing her fork dramatically into the food before setting it down between us. "Somewhere out there, there's a man who brings flowers for no reason. Who cooks when I'm tired. Who doesn't lie, doesn't cheat. Who loves me in a way that doesn't feel like a cage."
My chest tightened at the seriousness that slipped into her tone. She looked down at the food, suddenly quieter.
I swallowed before forcing a grin. "Fine. But if your husband is perfect, then mine has to be better. Taller, kinder, stronger. He'll read me poetry every night and build me bookshelves just because I asked once."
She chuckled, nudging the plate toward me. "So basically, a knight in shining armor who doubles as a carpenter."
"Exactly." I took a bite of the food—it was surprisingly good, soft, sweet, buttery. "And he'll have to survive our judgment before marriage. If he fails the interview, he's out."
"Deal." She reached across the table, pinky outstretched.
I hooked mine with hers, the gesture sealing a thousand unspoken promises.
For a long while, we ate together, laughter filling the kitchen like music. She talked about our dream house as if it were already real—walls painted soft cream, a sunlit window seat where cats would nap, shelves of books stacked high enough to touch the ceiling. A big garden with roses, daisies, and vegetables growing side by side. She even planned a little pond for fish, and a corner where she'd keep stray dogs and nurse them back to health.
"And in the mornings," she said, eyes glowing with mischief, "you'll wake up first and make me breakfast."
"Excuse me?" I nearly choked. "You can't even cook without starting a fire. Why would you trust me with breakfast?"
"Because you'll be better than me." She grinned triumphantly. "That's the only requirement."
We collapsed into laughter again.
But then—something tugged at the edge of my mind. A shadow across the sunlight.
I turned toward the corner table.
There, sitting open as if it had always been part of this world, was a worn brown diary. Its edges frayed, its pages yellowed, and its presence undeniable.
My laughter faded. My chest tightened with something strange—something like déjà vu.
I rose slowly, bare feet padding against the cool tiles. Each step felt overwhelmed, pulled by invisible strings.
When I reached the table, I touched the diary with trembling fingers. The cover was warm, like it had been sitting in sunlight for years.
I picked it up.
My heart thudded against my ribs, a sound too loud in the soft kitchen.
The laughter of my sister—friend—soulmate?—still echoed behind me, but as I opened the diary.
---
♡♡ The Diary
The diary's spine cracked gently as I opened it, pages whispering like old friends. My breath caught when I saw the handwriting. My handwriting. Slanted letters, small curls at the edges—familiar yet distant, like the echo of my own voice from another life.
The first page began casually.
"Today she tried to make pancakes again. Failed spectacularly. Kitchen smoked, window open, neighbors probably think we're running an arson experiment. But she laughed the whole time, and it made me laugh too. Maybe happiness is this simple. Maybe it's just her laughter filling a room."
My lips parted. My chest ached. The words were mine—every letter, every space, a mirror of my soul.
I turned the page.
"Sometimes I wonder about the future. Will we always stay together? Will life keep us side by side? I know things change, but I can't imagine mornings without her clumsy cooking, or nights without our whispered secrets."
The kitchen behind me blurred, voices dimming. All I could hear was the beating of my heart.
Another entry.
"She says her husband must be perfect. I told her no such thing exists. But secretly, I hope she's wrong. I hope she meets someone who loves her more than anything. Someone who fights for her smile, who protects her softness, who holds her when she's afraid. She deserves nothing less."
My throat tightened.
Another page.
"We talk about a dream house like kids planning castles in the sky. But I believe in it. I believe we'll build it, brick by brick. I'll fill it with books. She'll fill it with pets. And it'll never feel lonely, because home isn't walls—it's her. As long as she's there, it's home."
Tears blurred the ink. My fingers trembled against the fragile paper.
Each entry was a piece of me I had forgotten, tucked away in these pages as if I knew one day I'd need to find my way back.
And then, near the middle, written with a shaky hand—different, rawer:
"If anything ever happens to me, I hope she remembers this: she is not alone. She is loved. She is my happiness, my anchor, my heart. As long as she lives, a part of me lives too."
"Sometimes I think of laughter
as sunlight spilled across the floor.
She carries it in her hands,
scattering pieces for me to catch,
and when I do—
the world feels less cruel."
---
"Dreams smell like pancakes,
burnt at the edges,
sweet in the middle,
just like us—
not perfect,
but still enough to fill a morning
with joy."
---
"If a house is only walls,
then anyone can build one.
But if a house is a heart,
then only we can make it.
Brick by brick,
memory by memory,
I'll build it with her laughter,
and guard it with my own."
---
"Dear future,
please give her a love
that never turns cold.
A hand that never lets go,
a voice that never lies,
a gaze that never looks away.
If she smiles,
let it last forever.
If she cries,
let someone be there to catch it."
----
"Sometimes I write these words
so she'll know—
in case I'm gone before tomorrow—
that she was always
my safest place.
My home.
My forever dream."
*If tomorrow comes without me,
and I am only a shadow in her memory,
I pray the world is kind.
I hope she finds a love
that holds her like sunlight,
that sees her not as fragile,
but as a universe unfolding.
Even if I am not there
to witness her laughter,
to braid her hair before she leaves,
to scold her for forgetting breakfast—
I want her joy to outlive me.
She deserves mornings
painted in peace,
nights wrapped in safety,
and a heart that whispers
'forever' without breaking.
Even if I am not there—
let her be happy.
Let her be free.
Let her be loved enough
for the both of us.
Behind me, her laughter rang out again—so bright, so alive. I turned, diary clutched against my chest, but the kitchen was fading, light dissolving into mist.
"Don't forget me," her voice whispered through the haze, soft but urgent.
And then I was falling—clutching the diary, my diary—like it was the only thing tethering me to her, to myself, to the home I once had and lost.
This wasn't just a dream.
It was a memory.
A piece of home I had forgotten.