Sometimes, when the wind passes through the trees,
I still hear echoes of the mountain.
Not the screams, not the anger —
but the sound of the wind brushing against the leaves,
the same wind that once carried my name as a curse,
now whispering it as a prayer.
I live quietly now.
In this small town where the river glitters under the morning sun,
where the smell of bread drifts from the bakery at dawn,
where laughter fills the market and strangers smile as if we've met before.
My daughter — the daughter I was never meant to have —
runs barefoot across the garden, her hair catching the light.
Every time she turns and calls me "Mom,"
something deep in my chest blooms, fragile and new.
Her little hand in mine feels like an anchor.
A promise that I belong somewhere again.
There are nights when I dream of the other me —
the woman who couldn't speak, couldn't hear,
whose body carried all the bruises the world gave her.
I see her standing on the hill,
her face lifted toward the sky.
She doesn't look sad anymore.
She looks free.
Sometimes, I think she's watching over me.
Other times, I think she is me —
the part of me that learned what love costs,
and still chose to give it away.
My husband from the first life —
they say he visits my grave often.
He brings chrysanthemums, the flowers I once said looked too lonely.
My son leaves a folded letter each year on my birthday.
He writes that he finally forgave me.
He writes that he dreams of me smiling again.
If only he knew —
somewhere, in another breath of the world,
I am smiling every day.
When I look in the mirror now,
I see both of us.
The woman who was broken,
and the woman who was saved.
Two souls stitched together by pain,
reborn in a quiet kind of joy.
I whisper to my reflection:
We made it.
And for a heartbeat, I swear I see her smile back.
The wind moves again, gentle, familiar.
I close my eyes.
It carries the scent of lilies.
The sound of forgiveness.
The warmth of a sun that feels like home.
This time, I don't run from it.
I breathe it in,
and let it fill the spaces where sorrow used to live.
Because this is what it means to be free —
not to forget the pain,
but to live beyond it.
And when morning comes again,
I will wake up,
hold my daughter close,
and whisper to the dawn:
"Thank you for letting me live twice."