Isolde came back with a glass of water in her hand. She found me sitting up.
"What are you doing? I told you not to push yourself…" Her tone was tinged with worry. She handed me the glass.
"Sorry," I replied, taking the drink slowly. "I just wanted to look out the window. Don't you think the night came too fast?"
I leaned back, as if sudden exhaustion was excuse enough.
"Yeah… It's weird, but it doesn't matter. You should lie down and recover, Lucy. I don't want you to… die again."
Her voice cracked at the end. She was still caught in that echo of fear, that involuntary reflex left by loss.
"Don't worry. I guess it was just a little anomaly. Don't think too much about it."
"Okay…"
I was lying. Not to protect myself, but to protect her. Carrying the truth isn't always necessary, especially if the weight could break the one holding it. The last thing I wanted was for Isolde to crumble because of me.
I drank the water without saying more and handed the glass back. Silence. Sometimes, silence carries the same weight as a confession. And that night, it felt that way.
Should I tell her? She was my sister. If anyone had a right to know, it was her. But… what if she couldn't accept it? What if she pulled away? What if who I was got in the way of who I am now?
Uncertainty is like a thorn in your throat: it doesn't hurt right away, but every word that passes through threatens to make you bleed.
Isolde had become an emotional anchor. Not a weakness… but a fixed point in the chaos. A reference. And I… I wanted to open up. I wanted her to know me, even if it meant showing the face you keep hidden behind all the other faces.
"Can you do me a favor?" I asked finally.
She raised an eyebrow. Not out of distrust, but out of habit.
"Yeah. Tell me."
"I want to tell you something. But you have to promise not to tell anyone. Not even Mom or Dad."
Doubt weighed on my chest like a damp slab. I didn't know if it was the right thing to do. I didn't know if "right" even existed in this context. But I did know that hiding it any longer wasn't sustainable.
In my past life, I was… deplorable. No euphemisms can soften that. I stole. I killed. Not out of necessity, but for pleasure. I didn't understand the meaning of true family love or the value of compassion. I lived like a shadow among the living, a parasite feeding on others' suffering.
And yet, here I was. Reborn. Reformed, maybe. Redeemed? Hard to say.
If she rejected me, she'd be right. If she hated me, it'd be fair. I knew that. I accepted it. But that knowledge didn't make the possibility hurt any less. If she left me alone… if her gaze changed… I didn't know if I'd have the strength to hold myself up without that light.
But I had to do it. Some things needed to be said. Even if it hurt. Even if it cost me.
"The truth is… I'm a reincarnate," I said at last.
And I said it with an unsettling calm, like someone removing a mask they'd worn so long they'd forgotten it was there.
Isolde stared at me, bewildered.
"What are you talking about?"
Of course. I'd said it without context, without a preamble to make it make sense. It was a confession thrown into the void. A leap without a net.
I didn't answer right away. I just took a deep breath and let the flood begin to pour out. Orderly. Precise. Cruel in its honesty.
I told her everything. From the earliest memories of that past life, where childhood was just a rough prologue written by cruel hands, to the days when adulthood turned me into a perfect reflection of that initial violence.
Each word came with the weight of a verdict. Not against others. Against myself. I spoke with resentment, and in doing so, I judged myself.
I told her about my former parents, about their "education," if you could even call it that. I compared them to this new life, this home… to her. The difference was so vast it hurt.
Isolde didn't say a word. She just listened. But in her silence, each new sentence seemed to find an echo. Her initial confusion began to fade, replaced by a gradual, painful, inevitable understanding.
At some point, without realizing it, I started to cry. Not out of weakness, but from the recognition of a truth that had always been there, now revealed with a rawness impossible to ignore.
I never saw them as I should have. My old parents. For years, I idealized them. Maybe out of necessity. Maybe because it was easier to survive under a heroic lie than to accept abuse disguised as education. But now… now I saw the fear I never felt back then. The fear I should have felt.
And then I reached the darkest chapter.
I told her about my first kill. An accident, or so I wanted to believe for years. But no. It was an impulse. Pure. Savage. That moment gave me something I mistook for power, and from then on, there was no going back.
The fear of seeing that girl dead… it should have stopped me. But it didn't. It only opened a door. One I never walked out of.
I was a killer. Not for justice. Not out of necessity. For desire. By nature.
She listened. Her face couldn't hide the disgust. I saw it. I understood it. I accepted it. And still, each of her expressions was another dagger.
I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't. Because the truth is… no matter how much I try to redeem myself, no matter how much this new life gives me a second chance, the shadow of who I was is still there. Clinging to me. Reminding me that the monster doesn't vanish just because you change your name.
"And now… I just feel like I'm living under a veil that reminds me every day of who I was, and who I could become again," I said, my voice breaking.
It wasn't an excuse. It was a confession. The weight of a conscience that can't escape itself.
The tears kept falling. Silent. Slow. As if each one dragged a fragment of my past, leaving no room for forgiveness.
Isolde was too quiet. Her silence wasn't just empty; it was a dense pause, heavy with thoughts I couldn't decipher. I didn't know what she would say. I'd seen that expression too many times: a mix of disgust and repulsion, a reaction so human it hurt more for its predictability than its sting.
I wiped the tears from my eyes, trying to stay steady while I waited for her response. But she still didn't speak. Her silence was like a broken clock: no forward, no backward. She seemed to be processing everything I'd told her. I understood. It's not easy to digest that your brother is, in essence, a dead man. One who came back. One who carries the sins of a life that no longer exists but still breathes inside this new, younger body—not purer, just different.
"Are you happy?"
That question disarmed me. Not because it was harsh, but because it was honest. It left me hanging, without a foothold.
"In your past life, from what you said, you didn't seem happy. And you kept comparing it to who you are now. I don't want to believe that person is you now. You care, you smile… and above all, you're kind. I can't see you as someone cruel. I don't want to accept it."
Her tone was calm, almost clinical, but beneath it trembled a disappointment that wasn't meant to wound me. It was more a struggle within herself, one she didn't know whether to win or abandon. I didn't know how to respond. But I couldn't stay silent. Not again.
"I…" I started, but stopped. Words came in trickles, as if they doubted their own right to exist. "I don't know. I've felt so many things in this life that I wonder if they're real or just reflections, imitations too well performed. I don't know if what I feel with you is happiness. I don't know if what comes next will be fulfillment. I've never felt anything like this. I can't name it."
In these eight years, I'd never stopped to think about what I felt. Maybe it was happiness… or maybe it was a shadow, an impostor, something I'd learned to call happiness to keep from breaking.
"I don't know what to say. It's confusing. Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I'm tired of hiding. Because I don't know what I am, and because you deserve to know. When I died… I saw something. Myself. My old self. I don't know what really happened, and I don't want to explain it. Just… don't tell Mom or Dad. I can't trust anyone else. Only you."
Her expression was a mix of disbelief and effort. As if every word she'd heard took a world of work to understand, yet she kept trying. Silence returned, but it was different this time. It wasn't rejection—it was restraint.
"It's too much to take in. A past life? A serial killer? It's… too much. I don't understand, Lucy."
Her words were honest. There was no hatred in her voice, not even fear. Just the raw bewilderment of someone who'd heard something beyond the limits of comprehension.
"I'm sorry…" I said, with a weight I couldn't hide. "I didn't want to keep it hidden anymore. I want to change. I want… to be someone new."
It was a simple sentence. But it hurt more than I could admit. Exposing something that had lived only in shadows until now, facing it out loud, giving it shape with words… it was like watching a bloody scene again, this time from the other side of the weapon. For the first time, I wasn't looking at my past with cold detachment. I felt it. And that hurt.
"I'm not going to judge you for who you were," she said. "And I can't, Lucy. I didn't know you then. To me, you're just my brother."
Her voice trembled, just barely. Not from fear, but from the uncertainty of not knowing if those words were enough.
"I can't see you as someone cruel… and I don't want to. I don't even know what I'm supposed to say."
She didn't need to say anything more.
Her inability to fully understand me wasn't rejection. It was a confused but real acceptance. And coming from her, that was more than I deserved.
"I'm not asking you to digest it easily…" I said, my voice trying to hold steady. "But please, keep it a secret. I should've told you when you were older. When your mind could handle heavy things better. I'm sorry."
"No… Lucy," she replied, with the trembling determination of someone refusing to let fear ruin what she'd already decided. "I'm going to accept it. I don't know who you were in your past life, but I don't care. I know you're not that person now. You're… normal."
Normal. Such a simple word, it almost felt out of place. But on her lips, it sounded like a promise. She was speaking with honesty, though part of me doubted. Was she saying it out of conviction or just to comfort me? Was it really maturity speaking, or just love? Hard to tell. Hard to fully trust.
"You're not who you were before. You want to improve. To be someone new. You're clean, Lucy. And no matter what happened, now you're just you. You're my brother."
"Issy…" I repeated, as if her name were an anchor, as if saying it were enough to hold me together.
"It doesn't matter who you were. You're different. You're kind. You care about me. And you seem happy. If you don't know how to understand what you're feeling, if you're still lost, I'll help you! Because you're my little brother."
And she smiled.
A simple smile. A warm smile. Unconditional, fearless. Something inside me broke without warning. Tears started falling before I could stop them. I didn't feel them coming; they were just there, streaming down my cheeks as if that gesture were more honest than any words I could say.
I threw myself at Isolde, ignoring the pain, ignoring the shame.
"Thank you… sniff… Thank you."
"I love you, Lucy…"
Her words were like a balm I hadn't expected. I couldn't stop crying. Something inside me had given way. A wall, an armor. I didn't know exactly what it was. But I didn't care. I just wanted to keep holding her. I just wanted to stay like this.
In my past life, I never had this. There was never anyone willing to hold me, to protect me from myself. And now, Isolde… Isolde was the most precious thing I had. The only thing that felt real in a world that still seemed foreign to me.
This reincarnation… it wasn't just a second life. It was a chance. Not to escape who I was, but to redeem myself. To protect what I once would've destroyed without a second thought.
I won't make the same mistakes. I won't let the shadows of the past cling to this new flesh. This world, as vast as it is enigmatic, offers me something more than a mere rebirth: it offers me a purpose. And this time… I won't let it go.