THE GIRL WHO REMEMBERED MY DEATH

The photograph had been damaged by fire, water, and someone’s bad decision to keep it in a basement. I was trying to restore the face of a young woman when the rain began. Outside the old train station, the tracks disappeared into a gray curtain. Inside, the waiting room smelled of dust, wet wood, and coffee that had been reheated too many times. I liked working there. Nobody asked questions. Nobody cared how long I spent looking at a stranger’s face. My name is Noah. I restore photographs for people who want the past to look kinder than it really was. The photograph on my desk belonged to a client who had found it in his grandmother’s house. The image showed a railway bridge, a man in a dark coat, and a woman standing beside him. The man’s face was almost completely gone. I was about to repair the last damaged section when someone spoke behind me. “You always look at the sky before you lie.” I turned. She stood beneath the station clock, holding a folded umbrella. Her coat was dark blue, her hair damp from the rain, and her expression was strangely familiar. “I’m sorry?” “You heard me.” “I don’t think we’ve met.” “No,” she said. “Not in this life.” I stared at her. She smiled, but there was something sad about it. “Lena,” she said. I waited for her to explain. She didn’t. Instead, she looked at the photograph on my desk. “Elias,” she whispered. The name meant nothing to me. “Is that the man in the picture?” She nodded. “Who is he?” Lena’s eyes moved to mine. “You.” I laughed because the alternative was to take her seriously. “That’s a little dramatic.” “You always say that when you’re frightened.” “I’m not frightened.” She glanced at the ceiling. “You’re doing it again.” I looked up. The station clock was broken. Its hands had stopped at 4:17. I looked back at her. She was smiling. I should have walked away. Instead, I asked, “How do you know my name?” “You told me.” “When?” “Years ago.” “I’m thirty.” “I know.” The rain struck the windows harder. I closed the photograph’s protective cover. “Have we met before?” Lena looked at the image again. “Not the way you mean.” She stepped closer to the desk. “Do you still hate thunderstorms?” My hand stopped moving. I had never told anyone at the station that. “Excuse me?” “You used to hide in the bathroom when you were eight.” I felt the back of my neck tighten. “That’s not something you can guess.” “No.” “How do you know?” She looked at my wrist. “Because you broke it falling from the apple tree.” I stared at her. The scar was still there, a thin white line beneath my watch. Nobody knew about the apple tree except my mother. And she had been dead for six years. “Who are you?” I asked. Lena’s expression changed. For the first time, she looked afraid. “I’m someone who has been looking for you.” “Why?” “Because you always come back.” The words settled between us. I tried to laugh again. It sounded wrong. “You’ve researched me.” “Maybe.” “Maybe?” She glanced toward the tracks. “You still listen to the same song.” “What song?” She hummed a few notes. My mother’s song. The one she used to sing when thunderstorms shook the windows. I had never recorded it. I had never told anyone the melody. Lena stopped humming. “You always forget the last line.” I felt something inside me shift. Not a memory. Something worse. Recognition. I looked at her face and suddenly imagined her standing somewhere else. In another coat. Beneath another sky. Beside another version of me. The image vanished. I blinked. Lena was watching me. “Are you all right?” “I don’t know.” She reached for the photograph. I caught her wrist. Her skin was cold. “Tell me the truth.” She looked down at my hand. Then she said, very quietly, “You have lived this life before.” The station lights flickered. Somewhere outside, a train horn sounded. I let go of her. “How many times?” Lena looked at the photograph. “Five.” I wanted to ask what she meant. I wanted to ask why she knew my childhood, my music, my name. Instead, I asked the only question that mattered. “What happens?” She looked at me for a long time. Then she said: “You die.” The word sounded absurd in the empty station. Everyone dies. I almost smiled. But Lena didn’t. She looked at the railway bridge visible beyond the tracks. “Not today,” she said. “Not yet.” I followed her gaze. The bridge stood in the rain, dark and distant. “What does that have to do with me?” Lena folded her umbrella. “Please don’t go there on October 17.” I looked at the station clock. 4:17. The rain continued falling. And for the first time in my life, I had the strange feeling that someone was warning me about a death I had already survived.