Elara gasped, her chest rising and falling in rapid bursts as she jolted awake. The suffocating darkness and cold she remembered moments before were gone. Instead, sunlight streamed through a nearby window, warming her skin.
Her heart raced, her memories disjointed. The Silent Ghost. The knife. Blood. She clutched her chest instinctively, expecting to find a gaping wound, but there was nothing—only smooth skin beneath her trembling fingers.
The scent of lavender filled the air, a painfully familiar smell she hadn't encountered in years. Slowly, she sat up, her eyes scanning the room around her.
Her breath caught.
This was her bedroom. The same pale pink walls she had insisted on painting at sixteen. The same cluttered desk she used to spend hours scribbling notes on, dreaming about one day proving her worth to her father and brother. The sight was so surreal it made her head spin.
"No," she whispered. Her voice came out hoarse, disbelief choking her words. "This isn't real."
Her gaze fell to the calendar on her desk. January 10th, 2025.
The air seemed to leave her lungs. Her mind raced. In her last memory, it had been 2033. Eight years had disappeared in an instant.
She stumbled out of bed, her legs shaky, and moved toward the mirror above her dresser. Her reflection stopped her cold.
It was her, but not the hardened version she had come to know. This was her eighteen-year-old self, with soft features untouched by years of exhaustion and sorrow. Her hair was long and silky, not cropped short for practicality. Her eyes, though wide with shock, lacked the shadows etched by sleepless nights chasing criminals.
Elara staggered back, her pulse pounding in her ears. She wasn't just alive—she had been reborn.
"How…?" she murmured, clutching the dresser for support. "Why?"
Her thoughts spiraled, fragments of her final moments flashing in her mind. The betrayal, the blood, the cold laughter of The Silent Ghost. She had died. There was no denying that. And yet, here she was, back in her teenage body, surrounded by a world she had long left behind.
The sound of voices drifting up from downstairs pulled her from her thoughts.
"She's eighteen now," her father's sharp tone cut through the silence. "She can't just sit here wasting time. She needs to join the academy. It's time she did something with her life."
"Arthur, stop pressuring her," her mother replied, her voice softer but no less firm. "She just finished school. Let her figure things out."
"She doesn't need time to figure things out!" her father barked. "Michael is already making a name for himself as a detective, and I gave decades to the military. What has she done? Nothing! If she doesn't join the police force now, she never will."
Elara clenched her fists, her chest tightening at the sound of their argument. It was all too familiar. Her father, Arthur Westbrook, was a retired military officer who believed in discipline and structure above all else. Her older brother, Michael, had followed in his footsteps, earning praise as one of the youngest detectives in the force. And then there was her mother, Catherine—the peacemaker who always tried to shield Elara from her father's high expectations.
Her hands trembled as she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The voices grew louder as she descended the stairs. Her family turned to look at her, their expressions ranging from concern to exasperation.
"Elara," her father said, his tone as sharp as ever. "We were just talking about you. It's time you joined the police academy and started making something of yourself."
Elara stopped at the foot of the stairs, her heart pounding. This was the moment.
"I won't join the police force," she said, her voice steady and calm.
Her father blinked, stunned. "What did you say?"
"I said I won't join the police force," she repeated. Her gaze swept across her family, lingering on her mother's worried expression, her brother's surprised frown, and finally her father's rigid stance. "I've made my decision. I want to be a soldier instead."
The room fell into stunned silence.
"Elara…" her mother whispered, her face pale as she rushed toward her. She grabbed her daughter's shoulders, her eyes searching hers with a mix of fear and desperation. "Sweetheart, what's gotten into you? The military? Do you know how dangerous that is?"
"Mom," Elara said, her voice softening as she placed her hands over her mother's. "I've thought about it. This is what I want. I need to prove myself—to all of you, but mostly to myself."
Michael, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke, his voice low but laced with concern. "Elara, this isn't like you. Are you sure about this?"
Elara turned to him, meeting his worried gaze. "I'm sure, Michael. This isn't a whim. I know what I'm doing."
Her mother's grip on her shoulders tightened as tears welled in her eyes. "You don't have to do this to prove anything, sweetheart. We love you no matter what."
Elara's resolve wavered for a moment. Her chest ached with the weight of her mother's love, and the guilt of her past failures clawed at her. She reached out, wrapping her arms around her mother in a tight hug.
"I know, Mom," she said, her voice trembling as tears slid down her cheeks. "But this time, I won't let you down. I promise. I'll make you proud."
Her mother clung to her, silent sobs shaking her frame. Michael looked away, his jaw clenched as he tried to mask his emotions.
Arthur, standing off to the side, crossed his arms and sighed heavily. "If this is what you've decided, you'd better be prepared to commit. No backing out."
Elara pulled back from her mother, her eyes red but filled with determination. "I won't back out, Dad. I'll see this through to the end."
Her father studied her for a long moment before giving a curt nod. "Then prove it."
Elara straightened, wiping her tears as a sense of calm washed over her. She wasn't just making a choice—she was taking control of her life. This time, she wouldn't let her past define her.