She heard a melancholy melody. Shards of ice, scattering like glass, accompanied the sound. Suddenly, a light burst forth, like the sun rising to melt the snow. The sense of lightness she had felt vanished, and it grew heavier by the moment.
Then Aria awoke to the faint smell of polished wood and sun-warmed linen, the world quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets. For a moment, she froze, disoriented. The familiar cold from the lake, the unbearable weight of despair—it all felt too close, too immediate. But as her eyes adjusted to the morning light filtering through the lace curtains of her bedroom, she recognized her surroundings. The furniture. The pale walls. The soft sunlight spilling across the floor.
It took a heartbeat longer for reality to settle in: she was alive again.
She looked at the calendar.
Not merely alive, but she had returned to herself, six months into her marriage—to a time before the crushing loneliness and unbearable heartbreak had claimed her entirely. Her chest rose and fell, uncertain at first, as she realized she still carried every memory of the future she had lived—the failures, the silences, the betrayal, and the unbearable weight of Henry's indifference.
She sat up, pulling the thin quilt closer around her shoulders, and her heart raced with a mixture of shock and hope. "It's me," she whispered to the empty room. "It's really me. I… I have another chance." She hugged her own body and cried. The freedom she felt while gliding over the lake had made her want to live again. She thought about everything and apologized to herself.
This time, she could choose differently. This time, she would not wait for someone else to define her worth.
---
By mid-morning, Aria found herself standing at the edge of the rink. The ice gleamed beneath her skates, smooth and shining, reflecting the winter sunlight streaming through the tall windows. She tightened the laces, feeling the familiar pull against her ankles, the cold bite of the leather against her skin. Her breath fogged in the air as she took her first tentative step onto the ice, and a thrill surged through her that she hadn't felt in months, maybe years.
The freedom of movement—the perfect, gliding motion—reminded her of the girl she had been, fearless and unstoppable, long before the weight of expectation had made her small and tentative. She bent her knees, pushed off, and the ice welcomed her. Each rotation, each stride, each sweep across the frozen surface was an assertion of her life, her body, her presence. She felt alive, for the first time since the winter night that had nearly claimed her.
As she skated, she imagined herself slicing through the past—through the pain, the betrayals, the despair.
The girl who had cried alone on the frozen lake, who had felt invisible even in her own home, who had clung desperately to Henry's attention, no longer existed. This version of Aria had purpose.
When she finally stepped off the ice, her legs shaking but her spirit rekindled, she knew her life had to change—not gradually, not in whispers, but decisively. She would care for herself first. The years she had spent bending to the expectations of her family, the social facades, the relentless pursuit of Henry's affection—they were over. She would reclaim her body, her health, her autonomy.
She signed up for a local gym, started a rigorous training regimen, and went to a nutritionist to rebuild strength in her frail, depression-weakened body.
And when she went to the doctor for a check-up, it was there that the world surprised her again. A familiar face awaited her, though time had transformed him entirely.
"Dr. Elias Harrow?" she asked, blinking as he extended a hand.
"Aria? Aria Acherley?" His voice held the same warmth she remembered from high school, but now it was laced with the confidence of a man who had grown into himself. The awkward boy who had tripped over words in the hallways had been replaced by a tall, striking figure in a crisp white coat, eyes sharp yet kind, and a smile that felt like sunlight.
"It's… been a long time," she said, shaking his hand, aware of the electricity of recognition between them.
"Too long," he replied, and something in the tilt of his head suggested he remembered every moment—the shared classes, the clumsy laughs, the quiet support he had always offered her in those days.
They spoke at length as he examined her, asking about her life, her work, and her goals. She shared carefully, choosing words that were precise and guarded, but Elias had an uncanny ability to read between the lines. He noticed the lingering shadows in her eyes, the faint tremble in her hands when the past resurfaced. And yet, he treated her with a professional attentiveness that felt like care, not pity.
"I can see you've been through a lot," he said gently. "But you're taking steps that most people only dream of. You're reclaiming yourself, Aria."
She felt a lump rise in her throat. No one had ever said such words to her with sincerity. Not Henry. Not her parents. Not the world. "I… I'm trying," she admitted.
"And that is enough for now," he replied.
---
Meeting Elias Harlow had reminded her of the old days. Back then, she had at least a few friends. She hadn't been this lonely. Maybe she could maintain her friendship with Elias. That's why she took his phone number before leaving.
When she got into her car and drove home, she thought she would be alone, as always. She had forgotten that she had been reborn. Henry hadn't left the house yet. So, when she returned home, she ran into him.
It was their first encounter since her rebirth. Henry ignored her again and continued eating his meal. Aria, not caring, went up to her room without even greeting him and took a shower to shake off the day's fatigue.
Henry had expected her, as usual, to sit at the table and ask for another serving. He was surprised but didn't press the matter. He hoped, perhaps, that she had finally given up.
Darcy, the elderly live-in housekeeper who was always around, noticed Aria's energy today. And with the sadness in her heart, she prayed for her happiness.