I had completed my Reiki course, and practicing on myself had become a part of my daily rhythm. The heat in my palms never failed to surprise me. Each time I placed them over my body, energy rushed through me, soothing and vibrant. For the first time, I felt steady. The wild visions that had shaken me in the beginning were gone. My nights were calm, my mornings filled with clarity.
But change always leaves its mark. Since I had begun Reiki, my curiosity about other spiritual practices had only grown stronger. Reiki was no longer enough. My mind wanted more. Tarot fascinated me, but witchcraft drew me like a magnet. Not the kind whispered about in fear and superstition, but the kind that sang of nature, herbs, fire, and moonlight. I read online that witches were often souls who felt deeply connected to nature. Lately, I could not walk outside without hearing the rustle of leaves as if they spoke to me, or noticing the wind as if it were alive.
I told myself to stop daydreaming. I was on a road trip with my family, heading toward the mountains. It was rare for us to travel together, and I wanted to cherish the journey. The landscapes were breathtaking, rolling green hills, winding rivers, mist curling over distant peaks. For once, it felt good to be ordinary, to sit with family and play the role of daughter, not seeker. But even as I tried to absorb the sights, my eyelids grew heavy.
I drifted into sleep.
My body began to vibrate. My subconscious leapt awake, alert.
Am I dreaming again?
I had not seen visions for days, but this was different. I was moving backward through a tunnel, pulled as though by invisible hands. Fear never came. I had learned not to resist. Trusting the flow was easier, and in surrender I found peace.
Suddenly, it ended. I was standing in a house. Recognition struck me like lightning.
Oh God!
It was my old home, the one where I lived as a child before we moved away. The walls, the scent, the atmosphere—it was all exactly as I remembered. I wandered through the rooms, each step stirring memories that flooded back with startling clarity. Laughter, toys, the warmth of family evenings. My eyes fell on the floor where a doll lay abandoned. I bent down, picked it up, and froze.
This was my favorite doll. The one I had carried everywhere. The one I had cried over when we moved. A strange ache filled me, but also joy. To hold it again felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.
Voices drifted down the hall. My parents' voices. Urgent, low, serious. Another voice mingled with theirs, deeper, older. I followed it to their bedroom, but the door was locked. I pushed against it.
Damn!
My hand slipped through the wood as though it was smoke. I laughed.
Of course, it's a dream. I can do anything here.
With effort, I pushed my body through and entered the room.
My parents sat with an old man, his face wrinkled with years, his aura commanding. On the floor sat a tiny child—me, no more than two or three years old. My heart clenched as I watched the scene unfold. My parents' expressions were grave. Their voices wove a tension that coiled around me. I listened harder.
They were talking about me.
Not just about me—about blocking something inside me.
What?
What did they want to block?
I leaned closer, desperate to hear, but suddenly the sound cut off. Silence swallowed their words.
No!
I strained harder, but it was useless. The dream had muted itself. My parents now looked at me with tenderness, but the atmosphere grew heavy, charged, almost electric. My body went numb. The vision blurred.
No, no, no!
I wanted to scream, to hold on, but everything faded.
I woke with a cry, my parents hovering anxiously over me in the cottage where we were staying. Their faces were pale, their hands trembling. They believed I had had a nightmare. I nodded weakly, hiding the truth. If I told them what I had seen, would they confirm it or dismiss it? I excused myself, stepping outside for air. The mountains towered around us, waterfalls whispered in the distance, and the crisp air filled my lungs. Yet even nature's purity could not calm the storm in my chest.
Was it only a dream? Or was it memory?
The question burned. If it was real, then what had they done to me? Should I ask them directly? What if I was wrong? What if they thought I was losing my mind?
That night, unable to bear my own thoughts, I asked to sleep in their room. It was unlike me, but they agreed. Lying between them, I stared at the ceiling, my mind unraveling with questions I dared not voice.
Morning came, and I found myself restless in the garden before dawn. The air was colder, fresher, laced with the scent of dew. Birds sang to the rising sun. Peace should have filled me, but unease clung to my skin. My parents appeared suddenly, their expressions tight with worry.
"What are you doing here so early, hun?"
I explained I couldn't sleep. They sat with me on the bench as the horizon burst into golden light. I clicked photos, trying to pretend everything was normal, but their eyes never left me. Finally, my mother broke the silence.
"What's going on with you?"
The question sliced through me. They had noticed. Of course they had. Parents always do. My hands shook as I looked down, debating. Then, heart pounding, I asked.
"Did something happen to me when I was two or three years old?"
Their eyes widened. Confirmation.
Yes!
It wasn't just a dream.
"Who told you?" my father demanded.
"No one. I saw it in my dream. Who was that old man? What did you want to block in me?" The questions spilled out, unstoppable.
They exchanged a long look, sighed, and finally began to speak.
Twenty years ago, when I was just a toddler, my grandfather's friend had visited. He was a Reiki Master, but also something more, a man with other abilities. My parents had told him how I sometimes spoke of things before they happened. How lights shimmered around me at night, strange and unsettling. They feared it was not normal.
The old man listened. His face darkened with understanding. He explained that I had brought powers from a past life. My sixth sense was sharp, too sharp, already awake. I could see the future. But such awareness came at a price. To live with constant visions would crush me under the weight of knowing too much.
My mother wept, terrified for me. My father asked if anything could be done. The old man said yes. He could block the powers temporarily, shielding me from their burden. But he warned them, the seal would not last forever. On my twenty-third birthday, the barrier would shatter. The energies would return, unstoppable.
My parents had agreed, desperate to protect me.
Now, in the present, my head spun as their words sank in. Every vision, every nightmare, every moment of fear and revelation, it all made sense. My twenty-third birthday was approaching fast. The barrier was already cracking. The dreams, the whispers, the words Death and Rebirth - they were all signals.
I told my parents not to worry, though my own voice trembled. Deep inside, dread coiled around me like a serpent.
If this was only the beginning, then what would happen when the seal broke?
What would I become when the powers I had been born with finally woke?