Snowfall

chapter seven

By 2019, Ethan Hayes had become a nomad with a purpose.

He no longer kept a permanent address. His Honda Civic held everything he owned: clothes in the trunk, a sleeping bag and cooler in the back seat, boxes of research printouts and notebooks strapped in with bungee cords. He moved from rented room to rented room—Airbnbs, cheap motels, occasional couches offered by distant acquaintances in the reincarnation community he’d found online.

Money came from freelance writing. He sold articles to history magazines, local newspapers, even a few paranormal sites that paid for “personal past-life accounts.” It was never much, but combined with careful budgeting—no eating out, no subscriptions, library Wi-Fi—he stayed afloat.

The search had structure now. He divided Virginia into grids, working county by county. He visited every historical society, courthouse, and cemetery within a hundred-mile radius of the original farms. He photographed gravestones, transcribed old Bibles, interviewed elderly residents who might remember family stories.

He looked for patterns: women born after 1918 with names echoing Amelia—Amy, Mia, Rose, Emily. Women drawn to rivers or baking or lavender. Women who wore old lockets. It sounded ridiculous when he thought about it too hard, so he tried not to think. He just looked.

Some leads hurt more than others.

In spring 2019 he found a woman in Roanoke named Amelia Ross—born 1932, died 2017. She had worn a silver locket, according to her obituary photo. Ethan drove through the night to attend the estate sale listed online. The locket was gone, sold years earlier. The family had no idea where. He left empty-handed, crying in his car in the parking lot of a Walmart.

Christmas 2019 he spent in a tiny cabin rental near the James River, the closest he could get to their old spot. He baked gingerbread from a box mix—his first attempt—and left it on a stump by the water, an offering to whatever listened.

2020 brought the pandemic.

The world shut down just as Ethan was planning a wider search—Pennsylvania, where Amelia had died in 1918. Archives closed. Travel restricted. He hunkered down in a cheap extended-stay motel outside Charlottesville, living on canned soup and hope.

Isolation suited the search in strange ways. With nowhere to go, he dove deeper online—digitized newspapers, newly uploaded family trees, forums where people shared dreams. He started a private blog under a pseudonym, detailing his memories without naming names. A small community formed in the comments: others searching, others remembering wars they hadn’t fought.

One commenter, “RiverStone92,” wrote often. She described dreams of a soldier dying in snow, trying to reach her for Christmas. She lived in Oregon, had never been to Virginia. Ethan’s heart raced with every message, but the details never quite matched—wrong regiment, wrong year. They corresponded for months, met once on a video call. She was kind, lonely, believing. But she wasn’t Amelia. When they both admitted it, gently, the correspondence faded.

Christmas 2020 was the lowest point.

Locked down, alone in the motel room with a hot plate and a plastic tree from Dollar General, Ethan hit thirty years old. He drank cheap whiskey and watched snow fall outside the window—again, always snow—and wondered if he was chasing a delusion.

He opened his notebook to the first page, the one from Christmas Eve 2015, and read his own words: I think she’s still waiting.

For the first time, doubt won.

He almost quit.

But on December 26, an email arrived from a genealogy site. A new record match: a branch of the Ross family—descendants of Amelia’s daughter—had uploaded a scanned photo album. Among the faded images was one from the 1920s: a young woman holding a silver locket, standing by a river in Pennsylvania.

The woman’s face wasn’t Amelia’s, but the locket was.

The album noted the locket had been passed to the eldest daughter in each generation, “per family tradition.”

Ethan stared at the screen until his eyes burned. The current owner wasn’t listed, but the uploader was a cousin in Richmond, Virginia.

Richmond.

He was already in Virginia.

In January 2021, restrictions eased enough for travel. Ethan drove to Richmond and contacted the cousin—a pleasant woman in her sixties who met him for coffee. She confirmed the locket still existed, passed most recently to a great-niece named Emily Ross, who lived quietly somewhere in the area.

“Did she ever mention dreams?” Ethan asked, trying to sound casual. “Or… feeling connected to the Civil War era?”

The woman laughed. “Emily? She’s a baker. Loves old things, wears that locket every day, but dreams? Not that she’s told me.”

Ethan’s pulse thundered. He asked for contact information. The cousin hesitated—privacy concerns—but promised to pass along his email.

Weeks passed. No reply.

By summer 2021, Ethan settled in Richmond semi-permanently. He rented a tiny studio apartment downtown, took a part-time job at a used bookstore to supplement writing. Being near the river felt right, closer than he’d been in years.

He kept searching, but now with a narrower focus: Richmond and surrounding suburbs. He walked neighborhoods, browsed farmers’ markets, lingered in bakeries hoping for the scent of cinnamon and a flash of recognition.

Christmas 2021 he spent walking the river at night, lights from holidays past twinkling on the water. He was thirty-one. Seventeen years, he thought sometimes—half a lifetime already gone.

But the pull never weakened.

In quiet moments he spoke to her, wherever she was.

“I’m closer,” he’d say to the dark water. “I can feel it. Just hold on a little longer.”

And somewhere, in a cozy house on a street he hadn’t found yet, Emily Ross pulled a tray of gingerbread from the oven, humming a tune she didn’t know the name of, the silver locket warm against her heart.

Four more years.