The night was still in the cottage. Too still.
Finn slept huddled next to her, his breathing quiet and regular, the heaviness of slumber weighing down his small body. But Charlotte—Lina—could not rest. The dreams had increased in recent times. Whispers of voices that didn't belong to this world. Marble halls. The smell of plum blossoms. A letter written in Elias's hand, vowing to return her.
She shut her eyes, promising herself that she would not weep.
And then—
She stood in the center of a vast, shining meadow. The grass glowed silver underfoot, the stars too close and too motionless overhead. The wind here did not stir; it sang like an old lullaby. She glanced down at herself. She was a child again. Seven years old. In a white nightgown and bare feet.
A figure stood across the distance.
Charlotte knew her before she had caught sight of her face.
"Mira?"
The woman turned around.
She was older—much older than Charlotte remembered her being. Her dark hair had gone the color of snow, her back curved slightly under the strain of years, her skin softened and pale like old parchment. But her manner remained the same: peaceful, fierce, an unyielding pillar in any tempest.
Her eyes, however… they were shrouded with white cloth. Blinded. But not defeated.
"Mira!" Charlotte charged forward, tears already welling. "I—I thought—Are you…"
Mira's fingers touched Charlotte's face with heartbreaking accuracy. She smiled softly, and in that smile were all their memories.
"I missed you," Charlotte breathed.
Mira nodded, her voice as always silent. But in this place—where dream and memory intertwined—her thoughts poured directly into Charlotte's mind.
"I waited. Longer than I thought I could."
Charlotte gagged on the lump swelling in her throat. "Elias—Eladin—are they…?"
"Alive. Altered. But alive."
She paused, and said, "You can see now? Even like that?"
"Not with eyes." Mira stroked her own bandage carefully. "With sorrow. Sorrow sees far when it cannot be muffled."
The stars overhead changed. The wind died further. Charlotte could sense something bearing down—something beyond either of them. Ancient.
"Why am I dreaming this? Why now?
Mira's smile dropped. She grasped Charlotte's hand, small and young once more in this dreamworld, and clutched it tight.
"You weren't meant to survive beyond your first life."
Charlotte blinked. "What?"
"You were designed to die—a small background soul, lost like so many others. That was your thread."
The silver grass started to undulate around them, as if threads were being tugged by unseen hands.
"But the god of humor and jokes. he found you amusing."
Charlotte's eyes widened. "Funny?"
Mira nodded. "You laughed at death. You made fun of fate. You upended tropes, and he enjoyed that. So he gave you a second chance. Quietly. Without the Fates' knowledge."
Charlotte's knees buckled. She collapsed hard onto the radiating grass. "That can't be…"
"But the Fates caught on eventually. They fixed their error. They killed you."
Charlotte recalled the tea. The heaviness. The porcelain breaking. Mira's soundless scream.
But then why am I here again? Alive?"
Mira craned her head back, white hair catching starlight. "Because you wove yourself into the world. Every life you touched—their souls remembered you. Elias. Eladin. Even me. We were drawn with you."
"Reincarnated?"
"Not entirely. But bound. Enough that we follow, sooner or later."
Charlotte gazed up at the stars. "So this is it? I just keep reincarnating? Over and over?"
"Unless you choose to stop."
Charlotte's breath halted.
Mira inched closer, her voice a thought carried on calm waters: "The thread that should have ended unraveled the tapestry. You've become a knot the Fates cannot loosen. You might not be the heroine. Or the villain. But you are the change. And change. fractures stories."
Charlotte looked at her, at the blind eyes that continued to see her.
"I miss you," she whispered.
Mira tightened her grip. "I miss you too. But I'll find you again."
The world was starting to melt, stars running like molten wax.
"You're not finished yet, Charlotte." Mira's voice receded as she disappeared. "Keep on living. Even if the world remembers you again."
Charlotte sprang up in bed, gasping for air. Finn stirred in his sleep next to her.
Outside, the wind rustled through the trees.
And somewhere, she could have sworn she heard the slightest laughter—brilliant, raucous, unseemly.
The god of capriciousness wasn't quite finished with her yet.