Dialogue with Them

Rebirth granted me a second chance, and with it, I envisioned a life that echoed the past—mundane, fragile, and meticulously ordered. However, fate appeared to hold a divergent path, a journey imbued with unforeseen depth. It unfolded as a dream of love, a sentiment I presumed to be as orderly and comprehensible as the fabric of our reality. Such was my conviction until the arrival of the Lorenz family, a catalyst that unraveled my understanding, revealing that the shadows cast by tales and legends bore the weight of truth. I reside in a small town perpetually soaked in rain and moss, where the sun rarely pierces through the persistent gloom, rendering its dominant hues forever muted. Yet, amidst this dampness, a vibrant green thrives, symbolizing vitality, pressing down with an almost tangible weight in Intlay. Now, I find solace in the overcast skies, though I'm less fond of the pervasive green. Intlay is shrouded in dense forests. Traveling through these woods in my uncle's car, the sight of coniferous trees sprawling across the mountains, with a faint green mist hanging in the air, cold and damp, is common. On fortunate days, we might encounter deer on the road, their lively eyes watching us pass. Thankfully, the town's unique customs spare these graceful creatures from becoming mere trophies on dining tables. I remember my past life clearly—I was sickly, weak, constantly tormented by illness. My family and friends often couldn't bear to see me in pain, giving up on me before I did. I recall one afternoon, lying in my hospital bed, basking in the gentle sunlight, accompanying me through my final moments. It was the warmest, most comforting sensation I ever felt, encapsulating the essence of life's vicissitudes in my final years—sorrow, suffering, facing mortality, and the gradual departure of everyone around me until I embraced eternal slumber in the warmth of that sunlight. But what awaited me beyond life, or how my existence might continue, was beyond my comprehension. All I knew was that I felt no regret, only a lightness of being. Perhaps the world, moved by my acceptance, allowed me to awaken once more, memories intact. I've since delved into many texts on reincarnation, yet none could explain my phenomenon. Given a second chance by fate, I'm determined to live earnestly this time around. As I slowly opened my eyes, a blinding light obscured my vision, aware only that I was nestled in a warm embrace, the location unclear. A woman stroked my hair, her voice soft, "Sweetheart, it's okay, no need to worry, mama is here." Her tone was incredibly soothing, yet tinged with fear and urgency. In my dazed state, I heard, "Trevor, how much longer to the hospital? Ethel's forehead is still so hot." Her lips pressed against my forehead, seemingly monitoring my temperature. Eventually, she frantically pressed a water-filled bottle against my brow to cool me down. I clumsily touched her face, her lips trembling, and reassured her, "It's okay." At that moment, I was still piecing together my situation, having just accepted my own death, only to find myself here, weakly cradled in a woman's arms. Half-aware, I heard them call me Ethel Millet. The smell of disinfectant was strong, and the chaos of voices, shouts of anger, words of comfort, and sorrowful whispers filled the air. What a strange and lengthy dream. I lay back down, the hospital environment vastly improved from my past life, the agony in my body not the debilitating weariness of impending death but a fresh, robust pain. This indescribable feeling of beauty felt like my soul was slowly merging with a new, vibrant body. Amid the bustle, I learned I had become a six-year-old girl, a realization that terrified me for days. Was I experiencing a mental breakdown, playing tricks on myself? Gradually accepting this new reality, I discovered this young girl's father was a wealthy businessman, too engrossed in work to offer familial care. Just days ago, she was left alone at home, fever peaking at 42°C, until she collapsed. The woman I first saw, the girl's mother, hurriedly called her brother to rush her to the hospital, saving her life. Perhaps this Ethel had already passed away in the car, allowing me to enter this world. During my hospital stay, the girl's mother and uncle took turns caring for me, trying to coax smiles with stories and jokes, bringing toys and storybooks she liked. I stared blankly, mute, perhaps due to the recent soul-body fusion, leading them to believe the fever had damaged my nerves, causing speech loss. Even a child psychologist visited daily, softly singing lullabies and playing with me. Then, a man rushed in, weary as if straight from a flight, his luggage abandoned at the door. His eyes were deep, his face gaunt, under his short, dark hair, he looked utterly exhausted. Seemingly at a loss, he said, "Ethel, forgive daddy. I'm... I'm damned for leaving you alone for so long." The man claiming to be my father gently held me, his voice tender as if afraid of breaking something fragile, "It's okay, Ethel. Thankfully, you're alright." After a week in the hospital, I learned that the girl had always been sensitive to sunlight, suffering burns and blisters under its rays, leading to severe reactions. This condition kept her indoors, alienated from school and peers, ridiculed for her aversion to light, and grew increasingly reclusive. Once recovered, I was sent to live with Uncle Trevor in Intlay, his place of work and residence. Arriving on a rainy day, the wet forests and stones were draped in a thick layer of dark green. The endless mountains and trees felt like a dream. Here, in a world soaked with rain, I hadn't expected to stay for many years.