Reborn Souls

Chapter One

“Monica!”

The old farmer’s voice made me look up. He stood beside a row of crops, waving as though we had known each other for years.

“Good morning, healer,” another woman greeted me, bowing her head.

“May the spirits guide you today,” someone else called.

I tried to smile, although confusion pressed against my chest. Why did everyone know me? And why did they keep calling me Monica?

My name was Cecelia. At least, it was the only name I had ever known.

I looked down at my clothes. The long, loose garment wrapped around my body and the cloth tied around my waist had become strangely familiar. A woven basket hung from my arm, already half-filled with medicinal leaves and roots.

“How do I know which ones to pick?” I whispered to myself.

Yet my hands seemed to know exactly what to do. I could tell which roots were poisonous and which leaves could be crushed into medicine. It was as if my body remembered things my mind had forgotten.

I walked deeper into the woods, collecting what I needed. The tall trees reached toward one another overhead, allowing thin rays of moonlight to slip through their branches. The air smelled of damp earth and leaves. Somewhere in the distance, birds called even though I knew they should have been asleep.

It was happening again. Almost every night, around two in the morning, I found myself in this strange place. I never remembered falling asleep, but somehow I always ended up here.

“Monica.”

The familiar voice came from behind me. My hands went still.

Slowly, I turned. A man stood several feet away, dressed in ancient clothing similar to mine. A small sack hung across his shoulder, and his slightly messy hair made him look as though he had been walking for hours.

I had seen him countless times in my dreams, but I still didn’t know who he was or why he kept calling me by that name.

“Don’t come closer,” I warned, taking a step backward.

“It’s me,” he said gently.

“Who are you?”

“There is no need to be afraid.”

“Then tell me who you are.” My voice trembled. “And why do you keep calling me Monica?”

He took a careful step toward me. Something about his face felt familiar, but not in the ordinary way of recognizing someone. It was deeper, almost as though my soul knew him before my mind did.

He noticed my fear and stopped.

“I don’t want to frighten you,” he said.

“Then stay where you are.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he reached into the sack on his shoulder. My heart began racing, but he didn’t pull out a weapon. Instead, he brought out a small wooden flute.

He lifted it to his lips and played a soft, haunting melody. The sound floated between the trees, beautiful and strangely familiar. Then he began to sing in a language I couldn’t understand.

“Why does that sound familiar?” I whispered, though I knew he couldn’t hear me.

I couldn’t explain it, but every note seemed to touch a memory buried deep inside me. The fear slowly faded. My chest loosened, and an ache spread through me as though something long forgotten was waking up.

I stared at him. Had I known him for years? Or had it been something more than years perhaps lifetimes?

He lowered the flute and approached me again. This time, I didn’t step away.

“You’ve gathered enough,” he said, glancing at the basket in my hands.

I looked down at it, then back at him. “How do you know that?”

He gave me a small smile. “Let me help you.”

I wanted to ask him who he was, why he kept calling me Monica, and why I felt as if I had been waiting for him. But my voice refused to cooperate. Not a single word came out.

He reached for the basket. I hesitated, then let him take it.

“Thank you,” I managed to whisper.

He studied my face for a long moment before slowly raising his hand. His fingers moved toward my cheek. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t pull away.

He was only inches from touching me when—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

I jolted awake.For several seconds, I couldn’t move. I stared at the ceiling, my heart pounding, then turned toward the window. Early morning sunlight was spilling into my room.

“Back in my world,” I murmured.

I was Cecelia again. But his voice remained in my head, especially the way he had called me Monica.

“Was that really my name?” I whispered to myself. “Have I always been Cecelia?”

Before I could think it through, my younger brother pushed my door open without knocking.

“Can’t you knock?” I asked, sitting up.

“Come downstairs!” he called, ignoring my complaint.

Then a loud voice came from the kitchen. “Cecelia! Get out of bed and come make breakfast!”

I sighed and climbed out of bed. For a long time, I had known I needed to move out, become a proper adult, and make my own decisions. But as I hurried toward the kitchen, the dream followed me.

For the first time, I wasn’t completely sure who I was.