I woke with a start, the morning light spilling across unfamiliar sheets. My head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind my eyes. But… wait. I looked at myself. I was younger—so much younger. My heart skipped.
A sharp, lingering pain reminded me of something I couldn't yet name. Instinctively, my hand went to my stomach, to the spot where the blade had struck in another life, and I froze.
I touched the skin. Smooth. Whole. Unbroken.
"I… I'm fine," I whispered, panic and disbelief warring in my chest. "I'm fine. I'm fine."
For a moment, I just lay there, trying to convince myself it was true. The ache in my head slowly faded, but a cold shiver ran down my spine. Something had changed. Something had carried over from the life I thought was lost forever.
The longer I lay there, the more memories surfaced, unbidden but sharp. A big, bustling household. My childhood filled with whispered prayers and hushed lessons in obedience. Teenage crushes and first loves that had seemed so innocent, so fragile. The taste of celebration, the warmth of fleeting laughter, and the constant, pressing weight of expectation.
My chest tightened as the images blurred together—until one memory slammed into me like a hammer.
A face.
Cold. Furious. Jealous. A man I had once known, once loved—or feared. His eyes had stared into mine as he struck, the blade, the blood, the absolute absence of love.
And now… my own hands, my own body, were married to him again. The same face. The same cruelty, staring back at me in the mirror of this life.
Panic surged. I pressed my hands to my face, shaking. "No… it can't be," I whispered. But deep down, a terrifying certainty gripped me: the husband who had ended my life before was here, in this world, tied to this body, tied to this fate once more.
I sat up slowly, clutching the sheets as if they were the only thing keeping me grounded. The room around me was unfamiliar, yet oddly intimate—a small apartment, white curtains swaying in the morning breeze, the faint scent of coffee lingering from yesterday.
My head throbbed. Instinctively, my hand went to my stomach, to the place where pain had burned in another life. My skin was smooth. No wound. No blood. "I'm fine… I'm fine," I whispered, my voice trembling.
My mind started to sort itself out—childhood games, teenage dreams, wedding vows, an ordinary job. Names. Addresses. Passwords. It was all here, stored inside me as if I'd lived it all along. I remembered how to move, how to exist in this body.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and rose. The movements felt automatic: clean up, make coffee, log in for work. My hands brewed the drink without thinking, guided by muscle memory, but my mind was elsewhere.
Something gnawed at the back of my skull. A whisper, a shadow. If this is another chance, I thought, I will not wait.
Even in this life, he's the same—rude, cold, demanding. No blade this time, but words that cut, glances that bruise. By law here, he cannot kill me… but still… why am I connected to him again?
I tightened my fingers around the warm mug. The coffee trembled. I stared at its dark surface, my reflection wavering like a prophecy, and I knew one thing for certain: this time, I won't let him have me.
Will I play the same obedient wife again? I needed a plan.
He came in from work, his posture sharp, his gaze cold. Without a word, he demanded a drink while I continued cleaning the living room, moving on autopilot but with every sense alert.
He grabbed the headphones I had left on the table and plopped them onto his head, ignoring me completely, as if I were invisible.
I paused, my hands on the duster, watching him. The old fear tried to rise, but I swallowed it down. Not this time. This time, I would not wait. I would not let him dictate my life.
I had a chance now. As soon as he left, I opened my laptop and started researching. What do I need to break free? What do I need… for divorce?
He tortured me in strange, subtle ways even in this life. No blades this time, but sharp words, silent punishments, small humiliations that cut just as deep. And somehow, this body—this mind—was still stupidly connected to him, tied with invisible threads I couldn't see but could feel, pulling at me.
In my last life, he ended me because he thought I had betrayed him. This time, I would not wait. This time, I would leave before he had the chance to accuse, to harm, to destroy.
My fingers trembled as I scrolled through laws, procedures, steps. Each link I clicked was a tiny breath of freedom. I whispered to myself, "Not again. Never again."
But fate had something else in store for me. I had nothing in this life—almost the same as last life.
What was the difference, really, between the historical life of a woman forced to play the obedient wife of a jealous general, and now being stuck as the home-stay wife of a worker with a narcissistic ego?
It was the same shit. The same rules. The same invisible chains. The same fear. Only the tools had changed—blades replaced by cold words, armies by social norms, oppression by psychological games.
I sank into the chair, gripping the edge, anger and disbelief coursing through me. No matter the century, no matter the body, no matter the law, it seemed women like me were always trapped, always fighting shadows of men who thought they owned everything, including life and love.
I had to act. Waiting, thinking, hoping—none of it would save me. I opened my laptop again, fingers trembling with a mix of fear and determination. I researched lawyers, divorce procedures, and ways to secure my finances without him noticing. Every click, every link, felt like reclaiming a small piece of myself.
I checked our bank accounts, noting which ones he could access and which were mine. I made mental notes, memorized passwords, and started quietly saving where I could. This body, this life, had taught me routines—coffee in the morning, tidying up, checking emails—but now I added a new ritual: planning freedom.
Even as I scrubbed dishes or arranged the living room, my mind worked faster than my hands. I mapped out contingencies, imagined his reactions, and rehearsed my words. I could almost hear him coming in, demanding, cold, accusing. But this time, I wouldn't flinch. This time, I wouldn't wait for him to strike first.
A fire lit inside me, faint at first, then stronger: I would leave. I would not be trapped again. Not in this life, not ever.
As he came and went, days passed, and I watched him like a hawk. Each routine, each habit, each subtle mood swing became a piece of a puzzle I was determined to solve. I memorized when he left, how long he stayed out, what he did when he was home. Every detail mattered.
While he drank, scrolled through his phone, or ignored me, I quietly gathered information—bank statements, emails, schedules. I traced my own finances, secured small hidden reserves, and mentally rehearsed every step I would take to leave him behind for good.
I had a plan now. Not just a hope, not just a wish. A plan. It was precise, cautious, and ruthless in its logic. In the past, I had waited, and it had killed me. Not this time.
Each day, as he passed through the door, I felt a quiet thrill of control. He had no idea. I was ready. I would not play the same role again. Not this time.
This time, I could be a free woman.
This time, I could divorce without fear of being killed. I would not stay again. Not in this life, not ever.
As I moved through the motions of my day, I found myself wondering why I remembered both lives. Was it some cruel gift, some cosmic lesson? Was this knowledge given so I could finally evade the same fate?
Even if I loved him again—and a part of me still felt the echo of old attachment—it wouldn't change him. His cruelty, his coldness, his rage… that was part of him, immutable.
Was this a test from the heavens? A lesson in survival, in self-worth, in the kind of love that doesn't destroy?
I shook my head and clenched my fists. I didn't have time to ponder too long. Plans needed to be made, steps needed to be taken. Love or lessons could wait. This time, freedom came first.
Then my friend came to visit me, smiling like she always did, and she brought someone with her. As soon as I saw them standing at the door, something inside me jolted.
I knew them. Not from here, not from this life, but from then. The same laughter, the same eyes, the same familiar energy. My heart ached with recognition.
I didn't even think—I hugged them both tightly, as if I'd been waiting years, and maybe I had. "Come in," I said softly, my voice shaking. "Come in… let's have a barbecue in front of the house."
We carried food outside, the smell of smoke and grilled meat curling into the evening air. I watched them, my friends, their faces bathed in sunlight, and my mind spun. How did this happen?
A mystery. A miracle. Were they reborn with me? Had fate drawn us together again, to heal what was broken? Or was this just another layer of the lesson I still didn't understand?
I smiled at them anyway, masking the tremor in my chest. Whatever the reason, I wasn't alone anymore.