Prologue
"Reincarnation is a belief that traces its roots back to Hinduism. It is the endless cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth—what Hindus call samsara. Every living being struggles within this cycle, yearning for moksha, the ultimate liberation, freedom from pain and worldly ties."
"Who would have thought that studying religions could be this fascinating?" I laughed while reading. At first, I expected it to be nothing more than memorizing doctrines and unfamiliar names. But instead, I discovered a world teeming with stories, gods, rituals, and philosophies. Every religion seemed so different—different deities, different ways of worship, different sacred texts—yet one thread kept appearing like a recurring melody: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Though phrased differently, it echoed across all faiths, as though humanity itself whispered the same truth in many tongues.
Still, the more I studied, the more restless my thoughts became. Which religion was true, and which was false? Or did each contain fragments of a greater truth? Could there really be countless gods, all moving under the will of one supreme being who orchestrates harmony in our fragile mortal world?
But my curiosity went beyond philosophy. There was another reason I chose this class—a secret reason. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been haunted by dreams that don’t belong to me. Strange fragments of lives I’ve never lived. Faces of strangers I somehow recognize. Voices calling out from somewhere deep within me. The more I learned, the more my nights unraveled. Sometimes I woke up weeping without knowing why, the sorrow so heavy it crushed my chest. It began to interfere with my studies, pulling me into a fog of confusion.
Finally, I sought help.
“I’m going to endorse you to a psychiatrist,” the doctor said gently, his pen scratching across the paper.
A psychiatrist? My stomach twisted. I don’t have mental issues! I’m not broken. I just want answers. These images—they weren’t hallucinations. They were too vivid, too real, like memories etched into my bones. I knew, somehow, that this was not an illness.
But if not an illness… then what? Could it be that my past life left something unfinished, and now I am burdened with carrying it on?
That night, the dreams returned. Images unfurled in my subconscious like an old film projector sputtering to life. I saw him—or rather, me, a version of myself from long ago. He stood in the moonlight, shielding a maiden with trembling hands. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders, her eyes wide with fear. Four masked men emerged from the shadows, circling us like predators.
He fought them. Fierce and desperate. His movements were sharp, disciplined—martial arts honed through years of training. Yet, in the chaos, I could not glimpse his face. Because I saw it all from his eyes, I remained blind to my own reflection. That mystery gnawed at me. Was he identical to me? Or was I now a distorted echo of who he once was?
The fight ended with a blade. One of the masked men lunged forward, steel sinking into my chest. I stumbled backward, colliding with the harsh glare of headlights. A car screeched, its horn screaming before impact hurled me into nothingness.
The instant I was struck, I gasped awake, drenched in sweat. Pain throbbed in my temples as though the wound still lingered there.
These visions… they were happening more often, bleeding into my nights with merciless persistence.
Unanswered questions piled in my head: Did my past self die young? Was his life ripped away in violence, or did he fade quietly into age? I didn’t know. But then, a lesson from class surfaced in my mind—birthmarks. Some believe they mark the fatal wounds of past lives. I touched the one on my chest. Had a blade pierced me there before? And the faint mark above my left forehead, hidden beneath strands of hair—had that been another mortal wound?
By August, the fog grew heavier. Each morning I walked through a shroud of gray, the air damp and cold against my skin. The pine trees that once stood tall and proud were swallowed by mist, their silhouettes only faint shadows now.
That afternoon, I sat by the café window. The glass was cool beneath my palm as condensation trailed down its surface. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm bread clung to the air, comforting yet melancholic. Outside, the world blurred in shades of silver.
I had just gathered my books, ready to leave, when I bumped into someone.
A girl.
Her eyes met mine, and everything fell silent. Time itself seemed to pause, the café’s chatter fading into a distant hum. My chest tightened as tears welled unbidden in both our eyes. It felt like a reunion, like two souls torn apart and suddenly sewn back together.
But before we could speak, agony lanced through our heads. Whispers flooded our minds, soft and sorrowful, voices overlapping like fragments of a vow broken and renewed:
“I kept my promise.”
“You found me.”
“I love you more than anything. No matter how many times we are reborn, I’ll still choose you. I’ll still love you.”
When the voices faded, our bodies moved instinctively, as though memory guided us. We embraced, holding each other desperately, tears flowing without restraint. My lips trembled as I called her name—a name I should not have known. She did the same.
And then I learned: she, too, had been haunted by visions. She had seen the same images, but from the opposite side, watching the story through her own eyes while I lived mine. It wasn’t coincidence. It couldn’t be.
So we chose to begin again—friends, starting fresh in this life.
As the years passed, the visions grew quieter. The haunting fragments softened into fading echoes, as though our souls were at peace. It became clear: we were finishing what our past selves had left undone.
A love reborn across lifetimes, carried by fate itself.
