Elina dreamed of rain.
Not the soft kind. It fell heavy and relentless, soaking the ground until mud swallowed her feet. She knew—without knowing how—that this was not the present.
She was someone else.
Her hands were older, roughened by work she had never done in this life. The village around her flickered like a half-remembered painting: narrow streets, shuttered windows, eyes watching from behind curtains.
And beside her—
Alina.
No. Not Alina.
Her, wearing Alina's face.
They were younger here. Closer. Their bond was tighter, sharper, forged not by comfort but by survival.
"You shouldn't have taken it," Elina heard herself say.
The other girl—bright-eyed, defiant even then—lifted the ring between her fingers. "She deserved it," she replied. "She doesn't get to decide who lives quietly and who doesn't."
The witch stood at the edge of the square, unbound, unafraid. Not monstrous. Not cruel. Just watching—with the patience of someone who understood consequences better than forgiveness.
"You bind what you don't understand," the witch said calmly. "And you mistake silence for weakness."
The memory lurched.
Fire. Screams. The smell of smoke choking the air. Elina felt herself reaching—not to stop it, not to save anyone—but to remember.
She woke with a gasp, tears streaking her face.
The number hovered briefly before fading.
78
Elina sat up, pressing her palm to her chest. Her heart felt too full, like it might crack under the weight of what had surfaced.
It wasn't random.
In the past life—it had been Alina who took the ring. Alina who defied the witch openly. And Elina…
Elina had stood beside her.
Silent. Complicit.
She reached for her notebook with shaking hands and wrote everything down before it could slip away. The rain. The square. The ring taken not by accident, but by choice.
When Alina woke later, Elina watched her carefully. The same fire lived in her eyes now. The same refusal to bow.
"We've done this before," Elina said softly.
Alina frowned. "Done what?"
"Defied her."
The word hung between them, heavy with implication.
That night, the witch appeared again in Elina's dream—but closer than ever, her voice almost gentle.
"You remember now," she said.
Elina met her gaze, fear giving way to understanding. "This was never about punishment."
The witch smiled faintly. "No. It was about balance."
When Elina woke, dawn was breaking.
And for the first time, she understood the truth that would tear them apart if spoken too soon:
The curse was not deciding who would die.
It was waiting to see
who would finally stop fighting fate
—and who would refuse to let go.