CHAPTER 9:The Child Whose Dreams Were Not Hers

Amara was seven years old when she realized something was… off.

It wasn't the way adults spoke to her—slowly, carefully, like they were afraid she might levitate at any moment. It wasn't even the way her parents whispered when they thought she couldn't hear.

It was the dreams.

Dreams that didn't belong to her.

Dreams of mountains older than time, of warriors and monks, of secrets buried beneath stone. Dreams of people she had never met, but somehow knew.

And worst of all?

They remembered her, too.

A Strange Little Girl

Amara wasn't like other children.

While others played with dolls, she sat quietly, listening to things no one else could hear.

While her classmates learned to write their names, she absentmindedly scribbled symbols that belonged to no known language.

And when someone asked where she was from, she simply shrugged and said, "I don't think I was always from here."

Her parents, bless them, tried their best. "She's just creative," her mother would say.

"She's seven. It's a phase," her father insisted.

But then Amara started waking up speaking Greek.

Fluent, perfect ancient Greek.

No one in her family had ever spoken it. No one in her school even taught it. Yet one morning, she yawned, stretched, and mumbled something about "the winds favoring the journey today."

Her mother nearly dropped her coffee.

The Unexplainable Becomes Undeniable

It only got weirder.

One day, Amara refused to enter a bookstore, claiming the owner had stolen something important three lifetimes ago.

Another time, she looked a priest dead in the eye and asked, "Does it ever get heavy?"

"…What?" he blinked.

"The burden of knowing," she said, patting his hand like a wise grandmother. "Don't worry. You're doing fine."

The poor man almost retired on the spot.

The Call in Her Dreams

Then, one night, the dream changed.

Instead of glimpses of past lives, she saw a temple—high in the misty mountains, waiting.

A voice, kind and ancient, whispered:

"It is time, little one. Come home."

Amara woke up grinning.

The next morning, she packed a bag (mostly cookies and crayons) and walked up to her parents.

"I need to leave," she said.

Her father nearly choked on his cereal. "Excuse me?"

"The temple is calling." She sighed, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "I was supposed to go ages ago, but I guess I got distracted being seven."

Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose. "Amara, you can't just—"

But her daughter was already at the door.

"Don't worry," she smiled, adjusting her tiny backpack. "I'll be back before my next life."

And just like that, Amara stepped onto the path that had always been waiting for her.

Because destiny doesn't care how old you are.