Chapter 5: Return
Leticia gasped sharply, her chest rising with force as if she had just emerged from icy water. Her heart pounded furiously, and cold sweat coated her skin. She coughed, her lungs tightening as if deprived of air. Just a moment ago, she had been drowning in the deadly cold—now, she felt the warmth of the morning sun on her skin.
She remembered—the mist, Aya's scream, the void.
But now, before her eyes, was a ceiling. A familiar ceiling.
Her fingers clutched at the soft fabric of a bedsheet, no longer feeling the slick dampness of the mist. The air smelled of dried herbs rather than frost and decay.
She blinked several times, trying to focus. The room was bathed in the muted light of morning. Slowly, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, glancing around. This place… it was different. No gloomy palace walls, no aristocratic luxury—just a warm, homely space, filled with memories of her mother. Her heart clenched with a strange emotion.
"No. This is impossible."
She sat up abruptly, dizziness washing over her, but she ignored it. Images of the ruins of her home, the charred beams, flashed before her mind. She remembered screaming in grief—and yet now, she was standing in a house that should have been reduced to ashes.
Her first instinct was to find the mist. Where was it? Where was Aya? She sprang from the bed, feeling an odd lightness in her movements, as if her body had become younger, stronger, more alive.
— "Aya?!" — she called out, but her voice echoed emptily against the walls.
She rushed to the door, flung it open, and ran into the hallway. Everything around her was painfully familiar—the wooden floor, the scent of dried herbs, the light-colored walls. Her mother's house. The house that had burned… or that should have burned.
Leticia's breath came heavy, her fingers clenched into fists. She darted back into the room, frantically scanning everything around her. "There has to be a sign, an explanation. I died. I was executed. I was supposed to disappear. Why am I here?"
Her gaze landed on the mirror.
She approached it, holding her breath.
She ran her fingers over smooth, unscarred skin, and flashes of past wounds and betrayals flickered through her mind. Years of pain and suffering, wiped away in an instant.
The reflection staring back at her was not that of the hardened, battle-worn woman she had become. Not the Leticia who had suffered betrayal, loss, and agony.
Before her stood a fifteen-year-old Leticia.
Her lips trembled, eyes widening in shock. She raised a hand—the reflection mimicked her. She touched her face—and felt soft, unblemished skin.
"This… This can't be real. Is someone playing with me? Or is this a punishment?"
Suddenly, soft footsteps sounded behind the door. The handle turned, and a woman entered.
Leticia froze, her breath caught in her throat.
Before her stood her mother—just as she had remembered her in her youth. Warm, gentle eyes, a soft smile, and a voice filled with kindness.
— "Leticia, you're already awake?" — her mother asked, tilting her head slightly.
Leticia's throat tightened, rendering her speechless. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. This was impossible. But she was here. Real. Alive.
— "Are you feeling alright, my dear?" — her mother asked with concern, taking a step forward.
Without waiting for an answer, she sat on the edge of the bed and reached out, brushing aside Leticia's messy strands of hair.
— "You're trembling…" — she murmured, wrapping Leticia in a blanket. — "Did you have a bad dream? It's alright, I'm here."
Leticia felt her mother's warmth, her care—that very sense of security she had lost long ago. But why? Why was she experiencing this again?
If this was a dream—she never wanted to wake up.
She couldn't hold back anymore. Suppressing her trembling, she threw her arms around her mother, clutching at her clothes as if afraid she would vanish.
— "Mom…" — she whispered, her voice shaking. — "Is this… real?"
Her mother simply stroked her hair, holding her close.
— "Everything is alright, sweetheart… I'm here."
Then, she smiled and held out a tray with a steaming bowl of soup.
— "You were sick, Leticia," — she said softly. — "You need to eat and regain your strength. I made your favorite."
The aroma wrapped around Leticia, stirring distant memories. She remembered how, as a child, her mother would make this soup on the hardest days—when she was ill, when she cried from hurt, when the world seemed too cruel. The warm steam rising from the bowl smelled of home, of safety, of love.
Leticia carefully lifted a spoon to her lips.
The first sip burned, but the taste—it wasn't just soup. It was comfort. Care. A reminder that, despite everything, she had once been loved. The salty broth coated her tongue, and the heat scorched her lips.
This wasn't a dream.
It was too real.
Raising her gaze, she looked at the mirror again.
Leticia's heart stopped for a moment.
The spoon slipped from her fingers, clattering against the floor, broth splattering onto her lap.
Her mother flinched.
— "Careful, dear!" — her voice held a flicker of alarm.
But Leticia didn't hear her.
Her gaze was locked on the mirror.
The reflection was no longer hers.
It was Aya.