The Reincarnate

The weather outside was bleak and biting. An unseasonably cold drizzle coated everything in its path, turning the world into a damp, unforgiving chill. The wind, which had raged violently for hours, had finally died down, leaving only a lingering crispness in the air.

Inside a modest room, a woman's agonized screams shattered the silence. Her husband moved frantically, hands trembling as he prepared to deliver their child. Blood pooled beneath her, too much of it, and he could see the life draining from her face.

"My love, you're almost there. Please, stay with me!" he pleaded, glancing down to see their child's head barely crowning. "Push, just once more!"

With a final cry of desperation, the woman mustered the last of her strength and bore down. A moment later, the sharp wail of a newborn filled the room.

Tears glistened in her weary eyes as she gasped, voice hoarse but laced with fragile excitement. "What—what are they?"

The man wrapped the tiny infant in a thin cotton blanket, his hands unsteady as he turned to her with a trembling smile. "A girl," he whispered. "We have a daughter."

A weak smile touched the woman's lips. "Let me see her."

He nodded and carefully placed the newborn against her chest. The woman looked down, her breath unsteady, as a pair of twinkling blue eyes blinked up at her. Tears slipped down her cheeks. "She's beautiful," she murmured, glancing up at her husband. "Her name is Scarlett."

The man swallowed hard, nodding as emotion threatened to consume him. "It's perfect, my love."

She gave him one last look, her expression soft but knowing. "Take her. Keep her warm."

His heart clenched, but he obeyed. As he lifted the baby from her arms and bundled her tightly, the woman's eyes fluttered closed, her breath slowing, then ceasing altogether.

Silence.

The man stood frozen, cradling his wailing daughter as the weight of his loss crashed down upon him. He looked down at Scarlett, fresh tears falling freely as she quieted at the sound of his voice.

"I'll take care of you, my sweet," he whispered, pressing a trembling kiss to her forehead. "I swear it."

Scarlett blinked up at him, so small, so fragile.

The man managed a broken smile. "I love you dearly, my little—”

Avery jolted upright in bed, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. A thin layer of sweat clung to her forehead, the remnants of yet another nightmare lingering in her racing pulse. Squeezing her eyes shut, she silently counted backward from ten, willing herself to steady her breathing. But the momentary silence shattered as her bedroom door flew open with a loud bang.

"Avery, what the hell?! Are you alright?" her father, Simon, rushed in, his voice laced with panic. He strode toward her bed, concern etched into his features as he sat beside her.

Still catching her breath, Avery nodded weakly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just another dream."

Simon exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly, though his eyes remained heavy with worry. He knew all too well how real—how terrifying—her dreams could be. Over the years, he had woken to her screams more times than he could count. Some nights, her dreams were bittersweet, filled with fleeting glimpses of a family she felt she had known once before. But other nights... other nights, they were something far worse.

They were of him.

Elias.

A name she had never heard outside of her own mind. A man she had never seen in the waking world, yet had come to know in agonizing detail. At first, his presence in her dreams had been vague—a shadow in the distance, a whisper on the wind. But as she grew older, the visions sharpened, each one more vivid than the last. Now, at nineteen, the lines between reality and dream blurred so much that, some mornings, she awoke questioning whether the nightmares were truly just that.

Elias was tall and wiry, his presence unnervingly commanding. His piercing red eyes burned with an intensity that sent chills down her spine, and his sharp, inhuman teeth gleamed like fangs. His clothing was never the same, shifting as if he were slipping through time itself. One night, he would be clad in elegant Victorian attire, his form draped in fine silks and velvet. The next, he would appear as a 1930s socialite, his suit crisp and polished. No matter how he dressed, the dream always unfolded the same way.

He entered a dimly lit room, where a man knelt on the floor, trembling, a baby clutched protectively in his arms. Avery could do nothing but watch, frozen in helpless terror, as Elias moved toward them with a calculated, almost predatory grace. The man pleaded, his voice choked with desperation, but Elias showed no mercy. The way he killed him—Avery didn't allow herself to relive it. She couldn't.

And then, he turned to the child.

A shiver ran down her spine. She swallowed hard, pushing the thought away before it could fully take root.

Simon sat beside her, his brows furrowed as he gently rubbed circles against her back. His warmth was grounding, a lifeline pulling her from the depths of her own mind.

"Which one was it this time?" he asked softly, his voice a gentle anchor.

"The dying wife. And the husband and child," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Tears welled in her blue eyes, blurring her vision as a deep, aching sorrow settled in her chest. "Why... why do I always dream of them?" Her voice wavered, breaking as she buried her face in her father's chest. "What's wrong with me?"

Simon shushed her, his hand smoothing over her hair as he held her close. "Hush now, Love. There's nothing wrong with you," he murmured, his voice steady and soothing. "You're just a vivid dreamer, that's all."

She wanted to believe him.

Reaching behind him, Simon retrieved the cup of tea he had prepared for her, having learned long ago that it was the only thing that helped ease her back to sleep. He coaxed her to take a sip, and she did, allowing the warmth to spread through her, calming the tremors in her hands. The tension in her body slowly ebbed away, and exhaustion took hold once more.

Before long, she drifted back to sleep, curled safely in her father's embrace.

Simon pressed a gentle kiss to her hair before easing her back down onto the bed. He tucked the blankets around her with practiced care, lingering for a moment to ensure she was truly at peace. Then, with the quiet grace of a man who had done this countless times before, he slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

For the rest of the night, Avery slept soundly.

The next morning, her alarm blared, shattering the fragile remnants of sleep. She groaned, blinking against the harsh light that poured into her room. With a sluggish hand, she smacked the alarm clock, silencing it before dragging herself upright. Running a hand through her tangled brunette hair, she winced as her fingers caught on a few stubborn knots.

With a sigh, she pushed herself out of bed and made her way to the closet. Grabbing her clothes for the day, she trudged toward the bathroom, ready—though unwilling—to face another day.

Another morning after another awful night.

And she knew, deep down, that the nightmares weren't over.

Not yet.

Avery and Simon lived in a modest two-bedroom, one-bath home—just big enough for the two of them. Simon had been a single father for as long as Avery could remember, raising her alone after her mother's death when she was still a small child. She had no memory of her mother, not even a photograph to glimpse into the past. Once, when she was younger, she had asked Simon why. His expression had darkened, his usual warmth retreating behind a shadow of grief. He told her that when her mother died, he had been devastated—so much so that he couldn't bear to keep even a single picture of her in the house.

Still, he spoke of her often. In his words, she had been the love of his life, a woman with a light so radiant it could brighten the darkest of days. He described her as charismatic, effortlessly drawing people in, and the most beautiful soul he had ever known. According to Simon, Avery was a mirror image of her mother. They shared the same deep blue eyes—eyes that reminded him of the sea—and the same rich brunette hair. Even the softness of Avery's voice sometimes made him pause, as if, for a fleeting moment, he could hear the gentle cadence of his lost love, like the patter of rain on a tin roof.

Avery never asked about her mother often, knowing how much it hurt him. Whenever he spoke of her, she could see it—the way his shoulders tensed, the way his hands stilled as if holding something fragile, the way his expression crumbled under the weight of a sorrow he had carried for years. Even after all this time, the pain had not lessened.

After a quick shower, Avery wrapped herself in a towel and brushed her teeth before drying her hair. The damp waves cascaded down her back as she dressed—underwear first, followed by a simple T-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans. She left her feet bare as she stepped out of the bathroom, heading downstairs. The familiar scent of coffee filled the air as she entered the kitchen, where Simon sat at the table, already sipping from his favorite mug.

Unlike Avery, who was on the smaller side, Simon was built like a fortress. Broad-shouldered and towering, he had the solid frame of a man who had spent his life working with his hands. Though strands of gray had begun to streak through his dark chestnut hair, he still carried himself with an energy that defied his years.

He smiled when he saw her, pushing a cup of iced coffee across the table.

"Thanks," Avery said with a small smile, taking it.

She often wondered how he always knew when she was awake. Sometimes it felt like he had some kind of supernatural hearing, but it was far more likely that he had just memorized her schedule.

The two of them sipped their coffee in comfortable silence until Simon finished his, rising from his seat. He took his mug to the sink, rinsing it out before turning to her.

"Alright, Ave. I'm heading to work. You gonna be okay today?"

Avery nodded. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Have a good day, and be safe," she replied, watching as he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Love you," she added.

"Love you too," Simon called as he grabbed his bag and headed for the front door. "And don't forget to lock up when I leave. I have my key."

"I know," she said, rolling her eyes playfully.

Once he was gone, Avery sighed and stood from the table. Despite the years she had spent alone during the day, she had never gotten used to it. She had been homeschooled her entire life, rarely stepping outside without Simon at her side. He was overprotective, though she understood why. It was why she never rebelled against him, even when she wanted to.

His rules were simple: lock the house when he left, stay inside until he returned. Only then was she allowed to step outside and enjoy what remained of the day.

But sometimes, resentment simmered beneath her understanding. She wanted to ask him why—why he was so afraid, why he kept her hidden away, why he always said it was for her protection.

Yet deep down, she already knew the answer.

Her mother's death had not been peaceful. Avery didn't know the full details, only that her mother had been murdered one night while Simon was away. He had returned just in time to save Avery from suffering the same fate. Since then, he had shielded her from the world, fearing that if she was ever left vulnerable again, he wouldn't be there to protect her.

Avery couldn't even begin to comprehend the pain that night had left him with. Maybe that was why she never pushed for more information, never questioned the gaps in the story. She simply accepted what little she knew and left it at that.

A few hours passed after Simon left. Avery curled up on the couch, her laptop open in front of her as she typed away. Writing was her escape, her way of making sense of the world—whether through documenting her dreams, crafting fictional stories, or detailing the nightmares that plagued her far too often.

Last night's dream had been especially vivid.

She had found herself in a small shack, the setting feeling ancient, like something out of medieval history. The people inside—an entire family—spoke a strange language, yet somehow, she had understood every word.

Pausing her typing, Avery opened a browser and hesitantly typed in the words she remembered. Her brows furrowed as she scrolled through the results.

"Anglo-Saxon?" she murmured, clicking on an article.

Her eyes scanned the page.

"Old English... Spoken in England and parts of Scotland during the early Middle Ages..."

She leaned back, absentmindedly chewing on her thumbnail.

"So I was right. It was medieval."

She had barely begun to process her findings when she heard the sharp sound of a key jamming into the lock. The door burst open, and Simon rushed inside, his expression wild—frantic in a way she had never seen before.

Avery turned in alarm. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Simon shut the door behind him and locked it, muttering a curse under his breath. Running a hand through his hair, he turned to face her, his face tight with urgency.

"Pack a bag. Now. We have to leave."

Avery's stomach twisted. "What? Why? What's going on?"

His gaze softened for a brief moment, but the urgency in his posture didn't fade. "I don't have time to explain, Ave. Just—just trust me, okay? Go upstairs, pack a few things, and meet me back down here."

She hesitated, heart pounding. "Dad—"

"Please," he said, voice quieter now.

Avery didn't know what was happening, but something in his tone told her not to question it.

Nodding slowly, she turned and hurried up the stairs.

Simon exhaled, his hands shaking slightly as he strode into his bedroom. He moved to the closet, pushing his clothes aside to unlock the hidden safe. Quickly, he retrieved a few items, stuffing them into a duffel bag along with a few changes of clothes.

He wasn't sure how much time they had.

But one thing was certain—his Avery wasn't safe.

And the only place left to take her was the very place he had spent most of his life running from.