(Chapter 6: Mira pov)
The warmth of the dinner had faded, leaving the shadows thick and cold in my room. I shut my eyes, telling myself the darkness was safe now. But when sleep finally claimed me, it didn't bring peace.
It began as it always did—soft at first, like a memory floating just beneath the surface. I was somewhere familiar, surrounded by walls that seemed to glow with the pulse of every line of code I'd ever written. The air hummed, rich with the scent of coffee and machine oil, and somewhere nearby, a keyboard clicked in rhythm. Comfort, routine…until it wasn't.
The clicking stopped, and I was no longer alone. I knew, even before turning, who would be there. A figure stood in the shadows, a silhouette against the dim glow of our shared fighting room. My best friend. Or at least, the woman who had once been my best friend.
"Funny, isn't it?" she said, her voice honeyed but carrying an edge as sharp as a blade. "We've been at this for years. Yet, you always thought you were a step ahead."
A cold shiver ran through me. Her words seemed to slice the air, mocking the trust I'd foolishly placed in her. I wanted to scream, to demand an answer, but my mouth wouldn't obey. Instead, I felt my body betray me, turning toward her like a puppet, my every muscle tensing as if already bracing for what was to come.
And then came the pain, swift and brutal—a searing flash as if fire had burst through my chest. My knees buckled, and I was falling, reaching out instinctively toward the person I thought would catch me. But her face blurred, slipping from my grasp like sand, and her laughter echoed in the vastness as the darkness closed in.
I woke with a start, gasping as if I'd been underwater too long. My heart pounded against my ribs, echoing the memory of that final, fatal wound. My fingers instinctively brushed over my chest, feeling the steady beat beneath, the proof that I was alive—reborn.
But the feeling didn't fade; it only grew. Every betrayal, every lash of hatred from those closest to me—first my witch friend, and now my stepmother and sister—it all settled like a weight in my chest, gnawing at the peace I should have found in this new life.
I sat up, running a trembling hand through my hair. I'd been given a second chance, and yet here I was, haunted by the same old wounds. The scars might not show on my skin anymore, but they still lay deep, hidden and raw.
"Get a grip, Mira," I whispered to myself, though my voice sounded as fragile as I felt. I couldn't let the past rule me—not again. But I couldn't deny that some part of it was woven into this life, no matter how desperately I wanted to leave it behind.
As the early morning light began to creep through my window, I felt a new resolve settle over me. Maybe it was time to find out why I was brought back…why I, of all people, had been given another chance to rewrite my story.
I breathe in and out as I pulled myself together. My skin was still damp with cold sweat, and the memory of the dream lingered, curling around me like smoke. But there was no time to let it weigh me down—I needed answers. I needed to understand why I was tied to these people, this life.
I threw on clothes quickly, hardly caring about what I wore, and slipped down the hallway before the rest of the house stirred. The walls were eerily silent, as if even the house was holding its breath. The grandness of the place had always felt like a mockery. For all its glittering chandeliers and polished floors, it was empty, loveless.
But now, in the quiet, I felt a pull—a strange urge to uncover the secrets hidden in its bones. There had to be something here, something that would explain the suffocating feeling that clung to me every time I saw my father's distant gaze or felt my stepmother's silent resentment.
I made my way to the study, slipping through the door with barely a sound. My father's office was always locked, but I had picked up more than a few skills over the years—skills he knew nothing about. In a matter of seconds, I was inside, the heavy door clicking shut behind me.
The room was lined with shelves filled with books that looked pristine, untouched, as if they were merely for show. I let my fingers drift over them, absently noting the titles. Most were dusty tomes on business, law, finance. But tucked in a shadowed corner, I spotted an unmarked leather journal, small and worn, almost hidden from sight.
Curious, I reached for it, pulling it free from its darkened nook. As I opened it, I felt a shiver of recognition—this wasn't a simple ledger or account book. The handwriting was rough, hurried, and as I skimmed the first few lines, I felt a chill spread through me.
It was my father's writing, notes from years ago. He was writing about my mother.
The words were disjointed, almost rambling, but fragments leaped out at me, drawing pictures of a woman I barely remembered. She'd been strong-willed, defiant, and…dangerous? My father's words painted a picture of a woman with secrets, someone who had carried burdens I'd never imagined. Lines about curses, about blood debts, and an alliance that should never have been formed.
One entry caught my eye, my father's handwriting fierce and jagged across the page.
"I was a fool to marry her, Our families were never meant to mix—she brought only death and ruin. And now this child…she's a reminder of everything I lost. A constant reminder."
My hands shook as I closed the journal, clutching it to my chest. So this was why he'd shut me out, why he barely looked at me. To him, I was nothing more than an echo of my mother's legacy—a legacy he seemed to hate.
A bitter taste filled my mouth as I set the journal back in place. So that was the truth behind their coldness, their cruelty. I was my mother's daughter in every way, a symbol of something my father regretted. But I wasn't her, not anymore. I'd been reborn, and I wasn't going to let myself be a ghost haunting this family any longer.
I took one last look around the study, committing the details to memory. My father might see me as a reminder of the past, but he had no idea what I was capable of now. The same grit that had gotten me through battles in my past life—the grit that had kept me alive despite betrayal and death—would guide me now.
As I slipped out of the study and back into the hallway, the first steps of a plan started forming in my mind. If my father wanted to keep me in the dark, I would find my own way to the truth. I'd uncover the secrets he buried, the legacy that chained me, and I'd decide for myself what I would become.
The house was still silent, the kind of silence that seemed to hold its breath, waiting. My father's journal burned in my mind, his words spiraling over and over. I could barely think straight. Every instinct screamed at me to tear down every wall, to unravel every lie and secret they'd kept buried.
But I had to be careful. There was one room I'd never been allowed to enter, one place that held the last whispers of my mother's life. My father had forbidden me from entering her study, his strict rule enforced by locks and warnings about things "better left undisturbed."
But now, more than ever, I needed answers—and I had the skills to find them.
I waited until the house began to stir, blending into the usual morning routine to avoid suspicion. My father, always up early, had already disappeared into his usual routines, and my stepmother and stepsister were likely in the dining room, fussing over their usual breakfast orders. The perfect distraction.
With practiced ease, I crept to the end of the hall, heart pounding as I approached my mother's study. The heavy door loomed before me, its dark wood smooth and untouched. I ran my fingers along the edge, looking for any signs of alarm systems my father might have installed. He knew I'd inherited my mother's rebellious streak, and I wouldn't put it past him to take precautions.
After finding no traps, I took out my lockpicking tools, the small metal pieces glinting as I slipped them into the lock. A few quiet clicks later, and the lock released. I pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, closing it softly behind me.
The air was thick with dust, but there was something else—a faint, lingering scent, floral and dark, as if the room still held the memory of my mother's presence. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to look around.
The room was filled with tall shelves lined with books, ancient and worn. Some bore strange symbols on their spines, others titles in languages I didn't recognize. A large desk sat by the window, papers scattered across it, some yellowed with age. I traced a finger over the surface, noting the papers and a few peculiar objects—a crystal pendant, a tiny vial with dried herbs, and a knife with intricate carvings along its blade.
These weren't just remnants of my mother's life. They were tools, pieces of something powerful and hidden.
A leather-bound notebook caught my eye, lying partially open on the desk. I picked it up, flipping through pages filled with her handwriting. They were lists, symbols, spells—descriptions of rites and rituals that seemed both familiar and foreign.
One page, dated shortly before her death, was circled heavily, the ink bleeding from her firm hand.
"The girl will inherit my strength. I only hope she finds her path and isn't bound by their lies. The cycle will repeat, but her soul is different—older, wiser."
My breath caught. My mother had known. Known about me, about the life that pulsed through me like a second heartbeat, carrying echoes of battles and betrayals, memories of my past self. She'd known I would need her strength, her knowledge, and she'd left it here, buried and hidden, hoping I would find it when the time was right.
But I wasn't alone in that moment of discovery. A noise—barely more than a whisper—sounded from the doorway. I whirled around, heart hammering as I came face to face with my stepsister, her eyes wide with shock and a hint of something else. Fear, maybe? Or…curiosity?
"What are you doing in here?" she hissed, her voice barely audible but laced with suspicion.
I met her gaze, refusing to let her intimidate me. "Looking for answers. Answers that I have every right to know."
Her expression faltered, just for a second. It was as if she hadn't expected me to answer so boldly, as if she'd expected me to shrink back like I always had. But those days were over. My mother had left this room for me, not them, and I was ready to claim whatever legacy lay hidden within it.
I took a step forward, letting her see the fire that had been rekindled inside me. "You and your mother might think you have me figured out, but there's a lot you don't know."
She glanced at the desk, her gaze lingering on the strange objects and the open notebook, her mouth tightening. She seemed torn between pressing me further and retreating.
"Maybe you're right," she murmured, a strange note in her voice. "But be careful, Mira. The things you're digging into—they have a price."
With that, she turned, leaving me alone in the stillness. I watched her disappear down the hall, a shiver tracing up my spine. She'd seen something in that room that unsettled her, something that went beyond the usual sibling rivalry.
But I wasn't going to stop. Whatever my mother had left for me, whatever mysteries connected my past life to this one, I would find them. No matter what it cost.
And that how I spent my Sunday, thinking about my present and pass life, i wondered how my mum knows about my life even before she died, what was this spells and this symbols or am I seeing things,please Lord don't tell me am running mad.