I didn't tell anyone about what Mara said — you shouldn't have come back.
How do you explain a sentence like that to people who think time is a straight line?
For the next few days, I kept to my room. I told my family I was tired, still "recovering." But the truth was, the house had started whispering.
Every creak of the floorboard, every flicker of light — it all felt like the old place, the one that burned.
Sometimes I swore I smelled smoke. Other times, I caught laughter echoing from rooms that were empty.
And always, somewhere in it all, was Mara.
One afternoon, she knocked on my door.
"Ayla? Can I come in?"
Her voice was soft — hesitant. I told her yes.
She stepped in, holding a folded blanket. "Your mom said you get cold at night."
I thanked her, but the blanket barely registered. She was standing near the window, light painting her in that same halo that haunted my dreams.
"You've been quiet lately," she said.
"I've been thinking."
"About what?"
I hesitated. "About things that feel too heavy for this house."
That earned a smile. "You talk like a poet."
"I used to write, once," I murmured. "Before… everything changed."
"Before the accident?"
I nodded. "Something like that."
She sat on the edge of my bed, smoothing the blanket over her lap. Her fingers trembled slightly.
"Sometimes," she said, "I wake up and my hands hurt. Like they've been reaching for something in my sleep."
"Do you remember what?"
She looked at me then — really looked. "A wall of light. A voice calling my name. And a promise I never got to keep."
My breath caught. "What promise?"
Mara's eyes glistened. "That I'd find her again."
The air between us stilled. I didn't breathe. I couldn't.
Later that night, I couldn't stop replaying her words.
That she'd find her again.
Her.
Me.
The fire had taken everything — my family, my name, my chance to tell her that love doesn't always fit in the shapes people expect. But if souls had gravity, if fate had a memory, then maybe this was it pulling us back together.
At midnight, I dreamt of her again.
But this time, I wasn't watching the fire.
I was in it.
The smoke burned my throat, and through the flames, Mara was screaming my name — the old one, not this body's name. She reached for me, and I saw the same ring she wore now, shining through the ash.
I tried to run, but my legs wouldn't move.
The heat roared — and then she whispered, "Wake up."
I did.
My room was cold, but there was a glow seeping through the doorway — faint, flickering, orange.
For a heartbeat, I thought the dream hadn't ended.
I ran.
Down the hall, the kitchen light was on, and Mara stood barefoot in front of the stove, staring at a candle flame like it was speaking to her.
"Mara?"
She turned slowly, her eyes distant, almost glassy.
"I remember," she said.
"What do you remember?"
Her voice was barely a breath. "The house. The fire. You—"
The candle flame snapped, sputtered, and went out.
She blinked, confusion rushing back like a tide. "Ayla? What—why are you up?"
"You were… talking," I said softly. "In your sleep."
She frowned. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
I smiled, small and tight. "It's okay. I wasn't sleeping anyway."
But as I walked her back to her room, I saw her hand trembling. And for the first time, I noticed a faint burn mark near her wrist — small, circular, exactly where the fire had touched her in the other life.