I walked barefoot beneath the flowers in the temple yard—the same space I had grown up in, where I had spent most of my outdoor hours. The petals, heavy with dew, brushed against my skin as I stepped through the grass. Dawn hadn't broken fully yet; the sun was still tucked behind the distant line of trees, casting only a faint blush across the sky.
The world felt still again. Whatever tension had clung to the forest nights before—like a held breath—had loosened. I sensed they were gone. Or had moved on.
I stood quietly, letting the air settle around me—just letting it be.
The first light spilled softly across the stones, and I tilted my face to feel it.
But something shifted. A ripple in the quiet.
I wasn't alone.
A figure stood not far away—tall, almost burly, cloaked in worn traveling fabric. His boots, wrapped in sheepskin, marked him as someone who had walked far. His presence startled me—not because he was menacing, but because I hadn't sensed him before. That never happened.
I froze. My fingers shot to the edge of my cloak and pulled it tight, hood up, hiding the hair that had marked me since I was ten.
"No need to cover it," he said, his voice low and rough-edged.
I sent him a wary look but sensed no harm.
"You are beautiful."
I stepped back instinctively. He moved a little closer. I raised my hand—firm but calm—and gave him a sign to stop. He did. I gestured again, asking who he was. I guessed he read my wary eyes.
"I spoke to your father a few days ago," he said.
I sensed he had reduced his presence.
The leaves had fallen, yet the breeze kept them from touching my feet.
He made no move forward. He held his distance, as if understanding how sacred the boundary was. I found my breath again and gathered my manners, curtsying slightly, head bowed—not as a girl to a stranger, but as a host to a guest.
For a moment, we simply looked at each other. And then, something clicked.
His deep brown eyes met mine, steady and searching. I saw no oppression or demand in them—only recognition. And something quieter beneath.
The morning light continued to rise, touching the edge of the yard.
And still, he stood there—silent, waiting. Like someone who'd found what he never knew he was searching for.
He stepped just close enough to reach the edge of my fingers. I held my breath.
"I'll be looking for you," he said quietly. "Wait for me."
Then, just like that, he turned and walked away.
I didn't call after him. I only listened. And this time, I could feel every step.
His presence returned to the forest, until I heard the faint sound of a horse retreating through the trees.
And then I was alone again.
The breath I'd been holding loosened as the vision ended.
The wind brushed gently against the side of my face. A few seconds later, raindrops began to trickle onto my head.
The drops snapped me out of the past. The spell had broken.
I stood up, left the garden, and stepped back into the house.
During the pandemic, I used to avoid the rain.
And now, I stood by the window, watching it pour.
This Druid past life was clearly a key to something I'm facing in this one. The vision came like a vivid reel—not just in images, but in feelings.
What lingered wasn't only what I saw—it was what I felt.
It's not the first past life vision I've experienced.
I know I've walked this earth through many cycles—many lifetimes.
I've always known that.
And I've been psychic in this life for as long as I can remember.
The Druid priest. The Druid era.
I remembered bits from history books—ancient Celtic times, stone circles, sacred groves. But I couldn't place the exact year. Only the atmosphere.
And the knight—Kaelen.
I knew it was him.
And that sentence...
Was it that sentence that brought us together?
Could a single promise carry across lifetimes?
I used to think one sentence couldn't change your life.
But now I'm not so sure.
Even as a psychic, I'm skeptical. Maybe especially because I'm psychic.
People assume I believe everything unseen, but I don't.
I question things. I observe. I wait. I don't jump into feelings just because they're loud.
I look for what stays quiet—and true.
People say I come across as cold. Detached.
Well, I'm not.
I'm just introverted.
Or maybe a talkative introvert. A contradiction in motion.
[…]
This Druid past life—because that's what I've decided to call it—keeps pulling my thoughts back to Kaelen.
I know how I died in that life. I could almost say: been there, done that.
But there's still something tugging at me.
I haven't even told him about it.
Auriel, of course, already knows. And—of course—she refused to spill the bean.
All she sent me was a sticker:
Be patient. Patience is key to heaven.
I replied with a 🙄 and another sticker:
Patient people must be frustrated.
After that, I tossed my phone aside and walked to the backyard.
The air still held the softness of early evening. I folded myself down on the mat under the guava tree, closed my eyes, and just breathed.
I wanted to clear my mind. But something lingered.
A sadness.
Not mine exactly. But it pressed against my chest anyway. Quiet and steady—like the echo of a goodbye that never got to happen.
I sat with it. I didn't resist. Just let it move through me.
And slowly, the images came—not from memory, but from somewhere else.
Somewhere outside of me.
His memory.
Kaelen.
The ache I felt wasn't mine.
It was his.
What came next wasn't a dream. It wasn't a vision either.
More like sitting inside someone else's emotion and watching it become images.
I saw him. Alone.
Standing in what once must have been a temple hall.
Now overgrown, broken. Stones cracked. Moss creeping in through collapsed wooden beams.
Time had undone the structure, but not the feeling.
He wore the same robe I'd seen before. Knightly. Stained by rain and silence.
He bent to pick something up—a small object, held in both hands like it meant everything.
My beaded rocks?
Then he turned toward the mountains.
Toward the forest.
He had come.
But that person was long gone. Perished.
And he was waiting for someone who never came.
And then I understood.
It wasn't just me who had been left behind.
He didn't get to say goodbye either.
We both carried the weight of an unfinished ending.
I sent a voice message to Auriel:
"I saw Kaelen. The knight. He was back at the stone temple after I died."
She read it. The dots danced on my phone.
He came 2–3 years after you died."
So it was true...
His past-life memory didn't pass like a story.
It stayed. Lingered. Settled behind my ribs like something half-remembered, half-felt.
Like a bruise that hadn't fully healed.
His grief—his waiting—wasn't just something I saw.
It echoed. It pressed against my own silence.
And for reasons I couldn't explain, that hurt more than any vision of my own death ever had.
I could sit with my own pain. I'd done that before.
But his?
It made something in me ache in a different language.
Maybe because it never got the chance to heal.
Maybe because it wasn't just his.
And maybe… maybe I started to fall for him.
In a way that doesn't quite belong to this lifetime alone.
Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just quiet. Real.
Like something that has existed long before words knew how to explain it.
I didn't have answers. Not yet.
But I knew this:
Some grief doesn't fade because it was never given the time to be spoken.
Some endings weren't endings at all—just pauses waiting to be remembered.
And maybe that's why we found each other again.