114

114

Isabel’s eyes opened slowly, the world hazy and bright. The ceiling was white, sterile, and unmoving. A steady beep echoed beside her—a rhythm she didn’t recognize as her own heartbeat at first. Her body felt heavy, foreign, and uncomfortably still. Panic flickered, then surged.

She tried to move her arms. Nothing responded properly. Her chest ached, her limbs stiffened. The voice that came out of her throat was hoarse, barely a whisper: “Where…?”

A nurse appeared almost immediately, smiling, clipboard in hand. “You’re awake. That’s good.” Her voice was calm, professional. Too calm. Isabel wanted someone to understand, to recognize her, to know who she was—not this faceless voice in a hospital uniform.

The memory of falling asleep—the long, dark coma—was a thin veil. But behind it, flashes began to intrude. Cold wind biting at her face. Snow crunching under boots. Baldwin’s hands gripping hers, firm, protective. His voice, low, commanding, but soft enough to make her heart ache. Scheuer’s laughter echoing around stone walls. The weight of a crown, the warmth of October’s bedchamber, the final moment when her own body had given up.

It all came crashing back in a torrent. Isabel screamed, a choked, keening sound that made the nurse start back. Tears rolled down her cheeks before she could stop them. The world around her—the pale walls, the antiseptic smell, the beep of machines—felt hollow, empty.

Her parents were called in quickly, their faces alight with relief and joy. “Isabel! Oh, thank God!” Her mother rushed forward, hands trembling, pressing against Isabel’s cheeks. Her father’s eyes were wet, but he smiled, awkwardly stroking her hair.

But she couldn’t respond. The words caught in her throat. She wanted to say something—anything—but every syllable felt like a betrayal. She had lived, truly lived, as October. She had loved, lost, and sacrificed. And here she was, in a world that knew nothing of it. Her grief was a weight pressing down on her chest, making it impossible to breathe normally.

Over the next days, Isabel tried to act “normal.” Doctors suggested gentle activity, her parents encouraged conversation, friends dropped by. She nodded, smiled, answered questions. But inside, she was unraveling. Everything she did felt wrong, hollow, like a play she couldn’t remember rehearsing.

She began whispering Baldwin’s name at night, her lips barely brushing the syllables, as though speaking aloud could bridge the impossibility between past and present. “Baldwin…” The sound hung in the air, unanswered, yet somehow comforting. Sometimes she thought she could almost feel him near, the ghost of his hand brushing against hers, the warmth of his presence.

Books became her refuge. She hunted for stories on reincarnation, ancient beliefs, and historical mysteries. Every page, every tale that hinted at life beyond a single body was studied meticulously. She traced parallels, desperate for proof, desperate for a sign that the North and Baldwin hadn’t been just a dream.

Mirrors became torment. Every time she looked at her reflection, she didn’t see October. She saw Isabel—her body, her face—but it felt wrong, incomplete. There was a distance in her own eyes, a foreignness she couldn’t reconcile. And yet, in fleeting moments, her reflection seemed to flicker. Shadows of the crown. A sharpness in her gaze. A memory of warmth that belonged to another life.

Sleep was no escape. Dreams brought her back to the North, to snow-laden forests and cold, stone halls. She could hear Scheuer’s laughter, Baldwin’s voice, the echo of footsteps across frozen floors. Sometimes she would wake with tears soaking her pillow, heart racing, a phantom ache in her chest as if the snow and stone still lived within her.

Her parents tried to comfort her. “You’re safe now, Isabel,” her mother would say. “You’re here, with us. Everything’s okay.” But Isabel couldn’t speak the truth. “I am not safe. I am not here. I am somewhere else, and I have left someone behind.”

She began writing again, keeping a journal of her memories. Each entry was painstaking, every detail of October’s life etched in ink. The North, Baldwin, Scheuer, the ministers, the trials, the love and the loss—all of it had to be preserved. The words became her lifeline, a tangible connection to a past the modern world would never remember.

Weeks passed. Isabel grew quieter, more withdrawn. Meals were eaten mechanically. School and social routines became exercises in endurance rather than participation. And all the while, Baldwin’s memory called to her. Not just as a memory, but as a living presence she refused to let go.

One night, curled beneath her blanket, she whispered again, trembling. “If you came to me once… maybe you’ll come again. Maybe I can find you too.” The room was still. The air heavy. But she felt her heart respond to her own words, a fragile pulse of hope.

It became her obsession. Every book, every history, every tale of lost loves or unexplained disappearances was scrutinized. Every shadow on the street, every man who bore a hint of familiarity, made her pulse leap. Every echo of laughter, every brush of wind, made her ears strain for a voice she couldn’t hear.

She stopped answering her friends, preferring solitude. She avoided crowds and mirrors, preferring the quiet and the dim light of her room. Sleep was often skipped, replaced with endless note-taking, planning, imagining—ways to locate Baldwin, to find a sign that the North had not truly ended, that love had not truly died.

Sometimes, she would imagine the impossible: him walking through a snowy forest, finding her, calling her name. She could hear the echo of the North in her mind, feel the cold against her skin, smell the pine and smoke from the fires they’d shared. She could almost feel him, feel his presence, and it was enough to keep her from breaking completely.

Other times, the despair returned in waves, and she would curl into herself, sobbing quietly, whispering, “It was real. It was real. I was October. I loved. I lost. I died.” Her body shook with grief and anger, a physical manifestation of the life she could never truly return to.

Yet even in her deepest moments of despair, a resolve formed. If Baldwin had crossed lifetimes to reach her once, maybe she could find him again. Maybe the story had not truly ended. Maybe, somehow, she could make it right.

And so, Isabel began the slow, painstaking work of reclaiming her life. But it was no longer just about living—it was about searching. Searching for Baldwin, searching for the North, searching for the fragments of a past that refused to let go. And every night, as she whispered his name beneath the blankets, she felt the faint, enduring pulse of hope that perhaps, somewhere, he was listening.