The day stretched long and strange, stitched together by moments that didn't belong to this life.
Every time Mara crossed the room, my body remembered her before my mind could — the way she tilted her head when she listened, the small habit of biting the inside of her cheek when she was thinking.
Old patterns, new world.
I spent the afternoon pretending to read, but the words on the page blurred. From the veranda, I could hear her laughing with my mother — that same soft laugh that used to spill through our old hallway when she helped braid my hair before school.
Now it belonged to someone else's bride.
When I finally stepped outside, the sun had already started slipping low, painting everything in amber. Mara was in the garden, trimming flowers with bare hands, her engagement ring flashing in the light.
"You should be resting," she said without looking up.
"I couldn't sleep," I answered. "Too quiet."
"Quiet's good. Quiet means peace."
Peace.
If only she knew how loud peace could be when you remember the sound of burning wood and breaking glass.
I walked over, picking at the hem of my sleeve. "You like gardening?"
"Love it. My mother used to say flowers remember kindness."
That hit harder than it should have.
Because in another life, I was the one who used to say that.
I crouched beside her, the scent of soil grounding me. "What happens when they forget?"
She looked at me then — really looked — and for the briefest heartbeat, her expression faltered. Her fingers tightened around the shears.
"They never truly forget," she whispered. "They just grow around the pain."
We both went quiet after that. The kind of silence that says everything words can't.
⸻
Later that evening, my brother had to drive to the city for a late meeting. He kissed Mara goodbye and told me to "take it easy." When the door shut behind him, the house fell into a hush so deep it felt like memory itself was holding its breath.
Mara brewed tea and joined me in the living room. The lamp threw soft gold over her features, and the shadows on her face looked exactly the way I remembered them — half-light, half-loss.
"Do you believe in déjà vu?" I asked suddenly.
She glanced up, surprised. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. I just feel like… I've met you before."
"Maybe in passing," she said with a polite smile, but her voice trembled just slightly.
"Maybe," I echoed.
But I knew.
She poured tea into my cup, and her hand brushed mine. A jolt of something hot — recognition, grief, love, whatever name the universe gives to impossible things — shot through me.
Mara froze too. Just for a second.
Then she withdrew her hand, fingers trembling. "You're cold," she murmured.
"I'm not," I said.
We stared at each other, two souls caught in a mistake the heavens didn't know how to fix.
Outside, the wind howled — a low, mournful sound, like the fire roaring back to life somewhere in the distance.
And somewhere between the ticking clock and the rising silence, I knew the truth:
She might have forgotten the fire.
But the fire hadn't forgotten her.