Chapter 7: The First Vision
1045 Words
The revelation of their names lingered between them like a ghostly presence. Isabelle and Gabriel. The words carried weight, history, and an undeniable sense of familiarity. Celeste and Ethan—or rather, Isabelle and Gabriel—stood in stunned silence at the sundial, the cool night air pressing around them.
Ethan broke the silence first. “We need to find out more.”
Celeste nodded. “But how? We can't just Google ‘past lives of Isabelle and Gabriel’ and expect answers.”
Ethan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe we don’t need to. Maybe the memories will come to us.”
Celeste hesitated before stepping closer. “Then we need to trigger them.”
The next day, Celeste scoured the library, searching through old archives. There was something oddly thrilling about it, as though she were unraveling a mystery centuries in the making. She traced her fingers along the spines of leather-bound books, whispering their names under her breath, hoping that something—anything—would spark a memory.
Ethan, meanwhile, turned to the only thing that had ever helped him make sense of the world—his art. He let his pencil guide him, allowing his subconscious to spill onto the pages. He had drawn Celeste before, but this was different. When he finished, he stared at the image in shock.
It wasn’t Celeste.
The woman in the drawing had the same eyes, the same essence, but she wore a gown from another century. Her hair was arranged in an intricate updo, strands falling over her shoulders in soft waves. The expression in her eyes was haunting, like she was looking directly at him from across time.
Before he could process it, his phone buzzed.
Celeste: “Meet me at the museum. I think I found something.”
An hour later, they stood in front of a painting in the historical wing of the museum. Celeste’s hands trembled as she pointed to the two figures in the oil painting—a man and a woman, standing close, their hands nearly touching.
“It’s us,” she whispered.
Ethan’s throat tightened as he stared at the couple. The woman had Celeste’s eyes, and the man... he could have been Ethan’s twin, down to the sharp jawline and brooding gaze. The plaque below the painting read:
‘The Tragic Lovers, Isabelle Marchand & Gabriel Laurent, 1792.’
Celeste’s breath hitched. “Ethan, this is proof.”
Ethan traced a finger over the inscription. “They existed. We existed.”
Celeste turned to him, her heart pounding. “What happened to them?”
Ethan’s expression darkened. “I think we’re about to find out.”
That night, Celeste dreamt again.
She was no longer Celeste but Isabelle, standing in an opulent ballroom, chandeliers glowing above her. A masked man approached, his presence igniting something deep within her. He reached for her hand, his touch sending warmth through her entire body.
“Gabriel,” she whispered.
His lips curved into a smirk. “You remember.”
But before she could respond, the scene around her blurred. The warmth of the ballroom turned to cold stone walls, the flickering candlelight replaced by torches. She was running, breathless, through a darkened corridor. Heavy boots thundered behind her, and a voice called out—Gabriel’s voice, filled with desperation.
“Isabelle, don’t stop!”
She turned just as hands grabbed her, yanking her back. The last thing she saw was Gabriel’s anguished expression before darkness swallowed her whole.
Celeste woke up gasping, her skin damp with sweat. She sat upright, pressing a hand to her racing heart. The dream had been so vivid, so painfully real, as if she had truly been there.
She reached for her phone with shaking fingers and sent a message to Ethan.
Celeste: “I remember.”
Across town, Ethan stared at his own sketch—a new one he had drawn in his sleep.
A woman in a mask, standing in a ballroom, looking at him as if she had known him forever.
And just like that, the past had come alive.
The following morning, Celeste and Ethan met at a quiet café off campus, their eyes filled with sleepless wonder. Celeste clutched her notebook, while Ethan had his sketchbook open on the table. They compared notes, speaking in hushed voices, overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of it all.
“We need to go back,” Celeste whispered. “Back to the museum, back to that painting. Maybe there’s more.”
Ethan nodded, but his gaze was troubled. “And if we find something worse?”
Celeste reached for his hand, squeezing gently. “Then at least we’ll know.”
As they sat in silence, a faint melody played over the café’s speakers. It was soft, barely noticeable at first, but when Celeste listened closely, a chill ran down her spine.
It was the song from her dreams.
She met Ethan’s gaze, his expression mirroring her own shock. “Do you hear it?” she whispered.
He swallowed hard. “Yeah. I do.”
The past was no longer just whispering.
It was singing.
Celeste and Ethan sat frozen, the haunting melody surrounding them like a whisper from another time. Celeste closed her eyes, focusing on the tune, willing herself to remember more.
Then, a flash—a vision so strong she nearly fell from her chair.
A grand estate. A stone balcony overlooking the countryside. The same melody, but this time, it was coming from a piano inside a lavish parlor. A woman—herself—playing the tune with delicate fingers, lost in thought. And then Gabriel, stepping behind her, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder.
She gasped, her eyes flying open.
“Celeste?” Ethan’s voice was filled with concern.
She gripped the table, breathless. “I saw it. The song. I was playing it. And you... you were there.”
Ethan’s expression darkened. “I think we need to go back to that museum today. Because if we don’t find the answers soon...” He hesitated. “The dreams might not be the only things coming back.”
Celeste nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. Something was waking up. And whatever it was, it was getting stronger.
- Writer
