"We can't keep moving; it's night, and we're taking too many risks." "We can't stop here either. We're too exposed. Let's keep going a little longer. We might find an empty cave and..." "Yes, but not in this direction. Turn back east, 50 km," murmured the barely conscious woman he carried on his back.
**
The same dream, over and over again. The same words. But nothing concrete, no clear sign of where, when, or who was with her at that moment. What she knew for certain, though, was that they had saved her.
The deafening sound of her phone startled her awake. It was only four in the morning, but her boss didn't care. And, truth be told, neither did she. Taking her time, she stretched lazily and got up to answer the call, but the phone stopped ringing before she could pick up.
"Well, too bad. I'll call back later," she thought to herself.
Not wanting to be disturbed during her morning routine, she switched her phone to airplane mode. Her morning ritual was vital for Arféiniel: starting the day with prayer, praise, and meditation was essential, even if she didn't always understand why. Deep down, she just knew it. Arféiniel believed in a higher power, an entity she had come to call the "Savior."
Physically, there was nothing extraordinary about her—average height, brown hair, dark brown eyes, and lightly tanned skin. Arféiniel was a 35-year-old woman living one day at a time, with no major plans for the future. She took life as it came. A 7 a.m. to 5 p.m. job, like everyone else, and a simple life with no frills.
Except for one thing—she remembered all of her past lives. And none of them had been ordinary. So this time, she had chosen to live simply.
But as she stood before her vanity, preparing for her morning ablutions, she froze. The reflection staring back at her was not what she expected. She was no longer a brunette, but blonde. Her eyes had shifted from brown to blazing orange, and her once-bronzed skin had turned a pale, deathly white.
Panicking, she grabbed her phone, forgetting all about her morning routine, and called the only friend she had—her insufferable 4 a.m. boss.
"Mikha, help! I have a serious problem. I need you. Where are you?"
"If you'd answered, you'd know I'm downstairs, waiting for you. We need to..."
"Don't move. I'm coming down now."
Wrapped in a plaid blanket, Arféiniel rushed outside to meet him. Hearing the urgency in her voice, Mikhail opened the car door to get out, but the passenger door flew open instead. Still in shock, Arféiniel grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back into the car.
"What are you doing? Hurry up, get in, and close the door. It's me, Mikha!"
Recognizing his friend's voice, he closed the door and looked at her, concerned.
"What's going on? Have you seen yourself? You're not exactly presentable. Are you trying to seduce me?"
"Are you crazy? That's all you have to say about how I look? Can't you see I have a problem? I've got blonde hair, freaky eyes, and look at the color of my s..."
"Wait, hold on. What are you talking about, Niel?"
"...skin that's paler than a corpse's… What?"
"Okay, stop. Calm down, breathe, and explain to me what's going on."
"You don't see it? No, tell me, look at me and tell me what you see!"
"I see a beautiful woman who has finally decided to accept my advances, showing up before me in..."
"NO! Stop, please. I'm serious!"
"So am I. All I see is you—the woman I love, with your black hair down, the hair I've always wanted to run my fingers through..."
At that moment, Arféiniel realized that, to everyone else, she hadn't changed. Just another strange anomaly in her life. Another thing that could get her locked away in a mental asylum if anyone ever found out.
Without waiting, she reassured Mikha, telling him she was taking the day off, then went back upstairs to lock herself inside her small sanctuary.
More calmly this time, she took a moment to examine herself in the mirror. Earlier, she had seen a mark forming in the center of her forehead. Now, it was clearly visible and intricately detailed—a five-petaled flower resembling an open hand. She had never seen anything like it in any of her past lives. What could it mean? And that mark?
As she raised her hand to touch it, a sharp, unbearable pain surged through her, causing her to collapse. But before she lost consciousness entirely, she heard voices whispering:
"Time is running out. We must find her. She is the last."
"Why hasn't she revealed herself yet?"
"She holds the final key."
"She's hiding from us. She hates us. She thinks we're traitors."
"We are not traitors. We made a choice, a different choice than hers."
"And do you think she'll join us this time?"
"We'll see."
"And if, once again..."
"He'll have to kill her! If he can't, then we will."