The next morning, Mara wore long sleeves.
I noticed it the moment she walked into the kitchen — the way she tugged at her cuffs, the soft wince when her wrist brushed against the table edge. The mark was still there.
Small. Circular. Familiar.
She smiled when she saw me, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," I said. "You?"
"Same. Strange dreams."
"What kind?"
She hesitated, staring into her cup. "Fire again. And someone calling my name."
My heart stuttered. "What name?"
Her gaze flickered to me — uncertain, searching. "I don't know. But it sounded like you."
We spent the day pretending it was normal. My brother had gone out again, and my mother was busy with errands, so it was just us — two ghosts in borrowed skins, orbiting each other in silence.
At one point, she asked if I wanted to help her rearrange the bookshelf in the study. I agreed, because I couldn't seem to stop following her.
We worked quietly, side by side. Dust drifted in the light. Her hand brushed mine once, then again — small accidents that didn't feel accidental. Each time, she'd flinch slightly, as if touching me burned.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said quickly. "Just static."
Static doesn't leave your breath shaking.
Around noon, a thunderstorm rolled in. Rain lashed against the windows, wind howling through the cracks. Mara lit a candle and set it between us. The flame danced, bright and alive, casting our faces in gold and shadow.
She traced the rim of her teacup, eyes fixed on the candlelight. "I keep seeing that fire," she whispered. "The one from my dreams."
I swallowed hard. "What happens in it?"
"There's a girl," she said. "Younger than me. She's trapped. I try to reach her, but I can't. And then everything burns."
I wanted to tell her.
That it wasn't just a dream. That the girl was me. That she had once pulled me halfway through a window before the smoke swallowed us both.
But how do you tell someone they've already lived another life?
The candle crackled, and she flinched again, clutching her wrist. I reached for her hand without thinking.
Her skin was ice cold.
And yet — when our fingers met, the room seemed to shift.
The rain outside fell away. The thunder quieted. For one impossible heartbeat, I heard it — the sound of collapsing beams, the scream of fire, the echo of my own voice shouting her name.
And then, through it all, hers — soft, breaking:
"I promised I'd find you."
She gasped, yanking her hand back. The candlelight flickered wildly. "What was that?"
I couldn't answer. My throat was tight, my eyes stinging.
"You heard it too?" she whispered.
I nodded.
Her lips parted, trembling. "How is that possible?"
I didn't know. Maybe the universe was tired of keeping its secrets.
The wind slammed against the window, making us both jump. Mara grabbed my hand again, instinctively — and the flame between us surged, bright enough to paint the room in gold and memory.
And in that light, I saw it.
Not this house. Not this moment.
The old one. The fire. The window.
Her reaching for me.
Me reaching back.
Our fingers barely touching through the smoke — exactly like now.
When the light dimmed, she was crying.
Silent tears, trembling shoulders.
"I don't understand," she said. "Why do I feel like I've lost you before?"
I wanted to tell her everything. The fire. The rebirth. The promise we made as the world burned around us. But the words stayed trapped behind fear — fear that if I said it out loud, I'd lose her again.
So I said the only truth I could manage.
"Maybe you haven't lost me," I whispered. "Maybe you just found me twice."
Her breath hitched. And for the first time since I'd woken in this life, she smiled — not the polite, distant kind, but something real.
Something that remembered.