62nd Dawn - Paris and Broken Dreams

My name's not Lillian Daffodil.

I don't have white hair and red eyes.

This place is not my home.

This life isn't mine.

Those four truths are the only things I could come up with after that confoundingly spine-chilling flashback. My recollection involves this entirely different world, an aircraft gliding above a modern city, people dressed in this non-stereotypical form of apparel, and my past self's ill-fated attempt to reach the land of her dreams. Inextinguishable flames swallowed us whole, then in just a snap of a finger, everything went falling apart. All that's in my mind at that time was to beg and beg for my life to be spared. I still wanted to live longer. I haven't even done anything yet.

"Done what exactly...? I died young and alone, leaving nothing behind at all. I couldn't even remember any family or friends. I wasn't expecting anyone to see me once I arrived... But what it is that I should've done?"

No longer able to keep my emotions from going berserk, an agonizing blow and powerful strike rammed in my head, causing me to feel like it's about to split into two. That's until a strong surge of an otherworldly sensation suddenly rushes forward, fighting against the unbearable affliction and suppressing them from surfacing any further. It came like a tender caress despite its overwhelming presence - a soothing reminiscence of Mother's soft and gentle touch. Then, with a loud and breathless gasp, I finally come back to my senses.

"Gah!"

With a jolt, I sit upright again, only to find darkness. The pain is no longer there, but I can feel a numbing ache on my back after falling asleep on the cold, hard floor. Looking around, I then realize that it's already evening. The silver grey moonlight illuminates the attic as if it's some kind of a place for a clandestine rendezvous.

"Haaah... Why is this happening...?" I grumbled, feeling like ten years have been taken off from my lifespan.

Mustering all my remaining strength, I raise on my feet and start to saunter away. At this point, I just really want to go to bed and rest. But then, I suddenly halt on my tracks upon laying eyes on the map once again. The moon's directly shedding light on it, making it appear gleaming almost heavenly. Now that I'm looking closely at it, I realize that the frame is made out of pure, freaking gold.

"Seriously, everything is too much for my small brain to process. I might even lose hair at this rate."

This dawn of realizations didn't stop there, however. As I continue poring over the image of the foreign territory, something catches my attention all of the sudden. It's that wrought-iron lattice tower that serves as the center detail of this whole picture. It's certainly conspicuous since it stands out the most and somewhat reminds me of the patroness' monument back at downtown. Then, that's when everything finally pieced together.

"Paris..."

I can't believe I forgot, or more like, I was forced not to remember.

Right now, though, I clearly recall. That stunning structure, its breathtaking view, those splendidly beauteous buildings, and their compellingly stylistic architecture - no doubt, it's Paris, the place where all my dreams live through. Or could've lived through, that is. I was a fashion intern that time who happened to have an ill-fated flight to France. It was heart-wrenchingly unfortunate, but what's done was already done. In fact, it all felt like a century ago, especially now that I managed to grow up and reach the sixteenth age without having any clue about living a previous life.

"Even then... I can't help it..."

Though that's what I think, I just can't keep myself from recoiling in horror and grief. I can't help but lament. Despite all my confusions and disconcertment, the strongest emotion that prevails in me at this moment is sorrow. Dying without anyone by my side, leaving just when I'm about to have the peak of my career, crying helplessly, suffocated by smoke, losing grip of reality, a presence ending up untold - the only thing within my grasp that time is my shattered ambition.

"Lillian Daffodil?"

Out of nowhere, a familiar husky voice called out for me. Swiveling around, I find Alexander pacing towards me with a concerned expression. He also seems rattled and fazed, looking as if he just saw a ghost. Seeing him somehow makes me let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. At that moment, he appears like the beacon of a lighthouse leading me out of the treacherous waterways - an anchor I need to haul myself back to the present.

"What are you doing here? Or more like, what is this place? Why is an attic here? I thought this house only has a second floor-"

Then, he paused.

Upon seeing my pale complexion, face drained out of color and frame slightly trembling, Alexander looks even more troubled and appalled. When he reaches out and lightly touches my cheek, both of us flinch in flummox. His hand feels very warm, or more like, I'm freezing cold. Seconds tick by, and deafening silence sprawls in our midst. At this, he no longer asks anything and just leads me out of the attic.

I completely forgot about dinner. That's probably why he went out and searched for me.

Alexander seems to be more of a gentleman than I initially believed, though. After walking me out of that place, he makes me sit on the stairs at the lobby and serves me a hot cup of coffee. He certainly is fond of this, not even minding to let me drink it although it's already evening. I don't find it in myself to refuse as well. My body really needs a good heating up at this point, and he's acting very amicable and accommodating. I'm sure he's plenty baffled by now, but he still stays considerate of me.

"Thank you, Sir. Forgive me for keeping quiet until now," I finally blurted out after a short while.

I'm still seated on the stairs while Alexander is sitting on a chair before me. This undoubtedly looks like a position for interrogation. I don't feel comfortable to spill the beans at this moment, though. I don't think I can ever reveal it to anyone either. It's not like something people can easily believe, and they might even see me as demented or a lunatic once I say it.

"You can just tell me anything, you know. Don't force yourself if you don't really want to."

At this, my eyes only widen in surprise and disbelief. He probably noticed my discomfort, which is why he's now looking at me like that. His once stern facade has immensely loosened up, and though his eyebrows are still furrowed and he has his arms crossed, he doesn't appear dominating or strict. If anything, he's visibly worried and just as puzzled as me.

Perhaps, it won't hurt if I let out a few.