Snowfall

chapter six

The train rattled south through the night, carrying Ethan Hayes away from everything familiar. He had taken a week of unpaid leave from his teaching job, packed one suitcase and his notebook, and boarded the Amtrak Crescent in Boston on December 28, 2015. Outside the window, snow gave way to bare trees and frozen fields as they crossed into Connecticut, then New York, then deeper into the mid-Atlantic.

He barely slept. Every mile felt like closing a circle he hadn’t known was open.

Richmond’s Main Street Station greeted him on a gray morning in early January 2016. The air was warmer than Boston—forties instead of teens—but damp, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and the James River nearby. Ethan stepped onto the platform with no real plan beyond the pull in his chest.

He checked into a cheap motel near the river, the kind with flickering neon signs and thin walls. That first afternoon he walked the downtown streets, past monuments and restored brick buildings, searching faces the way a starving man searches for bread. Of course she wasn’t there. She could be anywhere—any age, any life. But the river called him.

He found a public access point near the Tredegar Iron Works, now a Civil War museum. The James ran wide and brown here, sluggish in winter. Ethan stood on the bank for hours, skipping stones the way he remembered Elijah doing. Four skips. Five. The rhythm felt ancient.

That night, back in the motel, he opened his notebook and made his first real entry of the search:

January 3, 2016

Richmond, VA

I feel her here. Not close, but closer than Boston. The river remembers.

Tomorrow I start looking for records.

He spent the next days in libraries and archives. The Library of Virginia had digitized Confederate service records. He found Elijah Harper easily—18th Virginia Infantry, Company H, enlisted 1863, killed in action December 25, 1863, near Morton’s Ford. The cold facts stared back at him from the screen. He printed the page with shaking hands.

Amelia Rose Whitaker was harder. Census records showed her family in the county until 1864, then gone. A marriage record in Pennsylvania, 1868: Amelia R. Whitaker to Daniel Ross. Children born 1869 and 1872. Death recorded 1918, influenza.

Ethan traced the Ross line forward through online genealogy sites—public trees built by distant cousins. The family scattered: some stayed in Pennsylvania, some moved west, a branch went to California after World War II. No obvious concentration anywhere.

He stared at the branching names until his eyes burned. She could be reborn in any of them. Or none. Reincarnation didn’t follow bloodlines; he knew that from the books he’d devoured.

By the end of the week he was exhausted, pockets lighter from motel bills, and no closer to her. On his last night in Richmond he walked the river again at dusk. Lights from the city shimmered on the water.

“I’m trying,” he whispered to the current. “I started. I’ll keep going. Just… give me a sign.”

There was no answer but the quiet rush of water.

He returned to Boston on January 8, back to lesson plans and grading papers and the polite concern of colleagues who noticed he seemed distracted. He smiled, said he’d needed the break, and buried himself in routine.

But the search had begun. It became a second life, hidden beneath the first.

Evenings and weekends he researched: reincarnation cases, genealogy forums, historical societies in Virginia counties. He joined online groups for people experiencing past-life memories. Most stories were vague or dramatic; a few felt painfully real. He posted anonymously about a Civil War soldier and a girl named Amelia Rose. No one responded with recognition.

Spring came. He saved money ruthlessly—skipped vacations, cooked cheap meals, took extra tutoring gigs. By summer 2016 he had enough for another trip, this one longer. He quit his teaching job with a vague letter about pursuing independent research and bought a used car: a reliable but battered Honda Civic.

On July 1, 2016, he loaded the car with clothes, his notebook (now thick with printouts and sketches), and a roadmap of Virginia. He drove south again, this time without a return ticket.

He told his parents he was taking a year to write a book about Civil War stories. They worried but supported him. His mother hugged him too long at the curb.

“Find what you’re looking for, sweetheart,” she said.

“I will,” he answered, and meant it more than she could know.

He started in the county where Elijah and Amelia had lived. The old farms were gone, replaced by subdivisions and strip malls, but the river was still there. He walked battlefields turned into parks, read every plaque, talked to docents. No flashes, no recognition beyond the ache he already carried.

He moved outward in widening circles: Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg (though he knew Elijah died later). He volunteered at historical societies, scanning documents, hoping proximity would spark something.

Months turned to years. 2016 became 2017, then 2018. He supported himself with freelance writing—articles on Civil War history for magazines and websites. It paid little but enough, and it kept him in the archives.

Christmas 2016 he spent alone in a rented room in Fredericksburg, snow outside the window again. He drank cocoa and reread Amelia’s imagined letters in his mind.

Christmas 2017 in a Charlottesville hostel.

Christmas 2018 in a tiny apartment he rented in Richmond proper, closer to the river than before.

Each year the loneliness deepened, but so did the certainty. He was on the right path. He could feel it—the same way a migratory bird feels north without a compass.

He just didn’t know the path was leading him, slowly and inevitably, to a quiet suburban street outside Richmond.

To a house with a warm kitchen that smelled of gingerbread.

To the woman next door who, on December 1, 2025, would answer his knock with flour on her hands and a smile that would stop his heart.

But in January 2016, standing on a frozen riverbank with only the wind for company, all of that was still nine long years away.