Chapter 13 — Echoes of a Past Life
559 Words
The morning light spilled gently into the lake house, casting golden shadows across the wooden floorboards. Marina woke slowly, nestled in warm sheets that smelled like pine and something distinctly him. She blinked at the sunlight peeking through the gauzy curtains and turned—he wasn’t there.
The space beside her was warm but empty.
She sat up, brushing a curl away from her face, listening. A soft clinking sound came from the kitchen.
Dominic.
She padded out barefoot, wearing one of his oversized shirts. He stood at the stove, shirtless, stirring something in a pan with a focus that made her smile.
“You cook too?” she asked, voice still husky from sleep.
He turned, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “For special guests.”
“I guess I should feel honored.”
“You should,” he said, walking over and brushing a soft kiss on her forehead. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever known.”
She leaned against the counter, watching him.
“I had dreams last night,” she said after a pause. “Of a garden. With red tulips. And wind chimes.”
He turned to her slowly. “You planted red tulips outside our old home in Tuscany.”
“Tuscany?” Her eyebrows furrowed. “You and Juliette lived there?”
He nodded. “Only for a short time. But it was her favorite place.”
Her lips parted, her voice lowering. “Then why did she leave?”
Dominic looked away, the tension in his jaw hardening. “Because I made it easy.”
She stepped forward, touching his hand. “Do you regret it?”
He met her eyes. “Every day.”
The air between them thickened, not with regret—but with longing. And questions too heavy to name. She didn’t pull away. He didn’t push her.
Instead, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek.
“I don’t know what this is between us,” she whispered, “but it’s real.”
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers.
“It’s the only thing that feels real anymore.”
They had breakfast by the windows, watching the lake sparkle. It felt like something out of a dream—domestic, peaceful, even romantic.
But beneath that peace… was tension.
Because Marina couldn’t shake the thought.
What if she was Juliette? What if she wasn’t?
And Dominic—what if he already knew the answer?
Later that afternoon, she wandered into the old study while Dominic chopped wood outside. The air was thick with dust and memories. She ran her hand along the bookshelf and paused when something caught her eye—a thick leather-bound journal.
The initials J.W. were engraved on the front.
She opened it.
Most of the pages were empty.
But one page near the back had a scribbled note in elegant handwriting:
“He’ll never love me the way I love him. But maybe that’s not his fault.”
Marina’s breath caught in her throat.
She closed the journal quickly, her heart hammering.
That night, she didn’t sleep much.
Not because she was afraid.
But because something inside her had started to wake up.
And she didn’t know whether it would save her… or ruin her.
End of Chapter 13.
- Writer
