The next morning, Mira woke up with the scent of jasmine clinging to her hair.
Her bedsheets were twisted around her legs. Her pillow was damp with sweat. She hadn't been cold, but she had shivered all night. She'd dreamed of moonlit gardens, candlelit libraries, and a boy with sorrow in his eyes whispering her name again and again.
"Mira."
It was just a dream, she told herself.
But as she sat up and looked at her desk—there it was.
The book.
And beside it, the silver fountain pen.
Exactly where she had left them in the hidden room. But how had they come with her?
She hadn't taken them.
She swore she hadn't.
Heart thudding, Mira stepped out of bed, crossed the room, and ran her fingers over the cover. The symbol—the flower dripping ink—was still there, but darker now. More alive. The moment she touched it, the cover warmed beneath her palm.
Like a pulse.
She hesitated… then opened the book.
The first page was still blank. But the moment she picked up the pen, words appeared without her writing a single letter:
> I can only speak when the ink flows. I can only see when you do.
Write to me, Mira. Please.
Her fingers shook.
She set the tip of the pen against the page and whispered aloud, "Alaric?"
A heartbeat passed.
Then, like breath forming on cold glass, his reply appeared:
> I'm here.
Mira bit her lip. "How… how did this happen?"
> Magic. Regret. Love. A mistake that took you from me.
You died. I tried to bring you back. But the spell—
It trapped me instead.
A tremor ran through her. The room spun slightly.
"I don't remember any of that," she said aloud.
> You will. The soul remembers before the mind does.
Do you feel it? The echo?
Mira opened her mouth to answer—then stopped.
Because something had changed in the air.
The scent again—jasmine and smoke. She glanced at her window, but it was closed. No wind. No flowers in her room.
And then—
A flash.
She wasn't in her room anymore.
She was standing in a candlelit library. But not modern. This one was old—books stacked to the ceiling, walls carved with symbols. Dust danced like gold in the flickering light. And next to her, a boy with ink-stained fingers laughed as he read from a page.
Alaric.
But he looked younger. Softer. He was hers, and she was his—and she knew it without being told.
Then, in an instant, the vision shattered.
She was back in her room, gasping, knees weak.
"What was that?" she whispered.
Alaric's words appeared immediately:
> A memory.
The first of many.
Your soul is waking up, Mira.
You're remembering us.
Mira closed her eyes.
She should've been afraid. This wasn't normal. This wasn't safe. But inside her heart, past the confusion, deeper than logic—there was only ache. A longing that didn't begin in this lifetime.
And maybe that's what made her pick up the pen again and write softly:
"I want to know you. All over again."
The reply came slowly, as though he had waited centuries to read those words.
> Then I will show you everything.
But hurry, Mira.
The ink… doesn't last forever.