Aarohi stood in front of the mirror, her fingers trembling as she traced the reflection staring back at her.
This was her face now.
Softer. Younger. Free of the tired shadows she carried in her first life.
Her skin looked untouched by stress, untouched by tears that once carved silent lines across her cheeks every night.
Her eyes were clearer—yet behind that clarity lived memories they weren't supposed to carry.
Because her heart still remembered.
Pain doesn't reincarnate; it follows.
She leaned closer to the mirror.
"Aarohi…" she whispered, testing the name again.
It felt like wearing a new dress—beautiful, but unfamiliar.
She bit her lip lightly. Her teeth… perfectly aligned. Perfectly white. No chips. No shame.
She touched them with the gentleness of someone afraid they might vanish.
Tears gathered suddenly.
For years Aara had learned to talk with closed lips, hiding the broken tooth her brother accidentally knocked out.
Years of laughing behind her hand.
Years of bullying.
Years of humiliation.
Now… this reflection didn't have that scar.
But her heart did.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Aarohi?" Arin's voice. "You okay?"
She wiped her tears quickly. "Yes… I'm coming."
She opened the door, and Arin nearly bumped into her, holding a small box.
"Oh—good. Mom said to give you this." He handed it to her with an awkward smile. "It's your… uh… memories."
Aarohi frowned. "Memories?"
"Things you kept. Diaries, letters, childhood stuff. Maybe they'll help."
He hesitated.
"Aarohi… if you get scared or confused, tell me, okay?"
The care in his voice hit her like a sudden blow.
She nodded weakly.
Arin left, gently closing the door, and Aarohi sat on the bed with the box in her lap. Her fingers hesitated before lifting the lid.
Inside were small things:
A diary with a sunflower sticker.
A bracelet made of cheap beads.
A painted leaf from kindergarten.
A photo of young Aarohi sitting on her father's shoulders, smiling wide.
Her heart twisted painfully.
Smiling.
Free.
Open.
Loved.
Aarohi traced the child's tiny face, feeling something warm spread through her chest. A warmth she didn't know how to accept.
She opened the diary next.
The handwriting was messy, filled with doodles of stars and rainbows. She read a page:
"Today Arin cried because I ate his chocolate so I gave him half of mine. He hugged me. I like hugs."
Aarohi blinked hard.
That child—
that soft-hearted, innocent girl—
was her.
But she wasn't that girl anymore.
And yet… she felt responsible for her.
As if the new Aarohi wanted her to heal the wounds the old Aara carried.
Another page read:
"Mama said I am her sunshine."
Aarohi's breath shook.
Sunshine.
In her first life, she was never anyone's sunshine.
If anything, she was the cloud people avoided.
The girl whose smile was mocked, whose kindness was weaknesses, whose silence was misunderstood.
She closed the diary slowly, holding it against her chest.
A sudden soft sound made her look up.
A bird sat on the windowsill—small, brown, shaking off raindrops. It looked at her with curious eyes, tilting its head as if studying her.
Aarohi stood and walked to the window cautiously.
The bird didn't fly away.
Instead, it hopped closer.
Aarohi whispered, "Do you… recognize me too?"
The bird chirped once.
In her first life, stray animals were the only beings who approached her without judgment. Stray cats would curl near her feet, and birds often sat on the branches above her when she cried behind the school building.
Now, seeing this bird… something inside her loosened.
Nature remembered her even if the world didn't.
She gently opened the window. The bird didn't move for a second, then fluttered away into the morning sky.
Aarohi watched it until it disappeared, her heart aching in a strange, heavy way.
Someone knocked again—this time softly.
Her father.
When she opened the door, he stood there in his office clothes, adjusting his glasses nervously.
"Aarohi," he said, "can we talk for a moment?"
She nodded.
He stepped inside, hands behind his back, eyes warm but cautious—as if afraid of overwhelming her.
"I know this is hard," he began. "For all of us."
He paused.
"But especially for you."
Aarohi looked down.
He continued, "Your mother and I… we prayed that you would wake up. We prayed you would come back to us. And now that you're here…" His voice broke. "I just want you to know that no matter what you remember or don't remember—you are safe. You are loved."
Aarohi felt her throat tighten uncontrollably.
Loved.
Safe.
Words she had starved for in her first life.
Her father stepped closer. "Aarohi… if you ever feel lost, or scared, or confused… you can tell us."
She swallowed. Hard.
"I'm trying," she whispered. "Everything feels… new. And familiar. And heavy. All at once."
He nodded. "Take your time, beta."
Beta.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Her father gently placed a small pendant into her hand.
A silver leaf.
"You wore this every day before the accident," he said. "You said it made you feel brave."
Aarohi looked at the pendant, the cool metal warming in her palm. She fastened it around her neck slowly.
It felt right.
Like it belonged.
Her father smiled softly. "There you are," he whispered.
As he left the room, Aarohi touched the pendant again, feeling its weight settle over her heart.
She wasn't Aara anymore.
Yet she wasn't fully Aarohi either.
She was something in between—
someone trying to stand between the ashes of one life and the fragile hope of another.
The past didn't let go easily.
And the future…
was something she wasn't ready to trust.
But for the first time in two lives, she allowed herself a small, trembling breath of possibility.
And somewhere deep inside, a whisper echoed—
Start again.
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