Chapter 7 : The Storm That Followed

The rain did not stop that night. It fell in thick, heavy sheets, drumming against the wooden roof, running in rivulets down the windowpanes, turning the garden into a shifting sea of silver and shadow. Inside, the fire burned low, crackling softly, its warmth a quiet contrast to the storm that raged beyond the walls.

You sat curled up in the armchair near the bookshelf, your fingers tracing the worn edges of The Garden Beyond the World. You hadn't opened it again since the library, but it rested in your lap as if waiting, as if the story inside would only unfold when the time was right.

I watched from the kitchen, pouring coffee into two ceramic cups, the steam curling upward like ghostly whispers. Something about this night felt different. The house had always been my sanctuary, a place untouched by the world's chaos, but now, with the storm pressing in, it felt smaller, more fragile. As if the walls themselves knew that something was coming.

I set the cup beside you, and you glanced up, offering a quiet smile. But your eyes—they were distant, lost in thoughts you hadn't voiced. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that stretched and twisted along the wooden walls.

"What are you thinking?" I asked, settling onto the couch across from you.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the book. Then, finally, you sighed. "It's strange, isn't it?"

I tilted my head. "What is?"

You ran a hand through your hair, damp from where the storm's breath had caught you outside. "This book. This garden. The fact that I found you, that you found me." Your voice softened, turning inward. "Sometimes I wonder… did we choose this, or were we led here?"

The question lingered in the air, settling between us like the rain against the window—soft, relentless.

I took a slow sip of coffee, my fingers warm against the ceramic. "Maybe some things aren't meant to be chosen," I murmured. "Maybe they just… find us."

You considered this, your gaze drifting back to the book. "Do you believe in past lives?"

The question sent a shiver through me, though the fire burned steady in the hearth.

"I don't know," I admitted. "But sometimes… sometimes I look at you, and I feel like I've known you before."

Your lips parted slightly, but you didn't speak. Instead, you opened the book, flipping through the delicate pages until you stopped at a passage near the center. Slowly, you turned the book so I could see.

The words were old, printed in faded ink, but their meaning struck something deep inside me:

"Some souls are woven together across time, meeting again and again in the places they once called home. They will always find each other, even if the world forgets."

The room felt impossibly still. The fire crackled, the rain whispered against the glass, but between us, there was something heavier—a weight that neither of us had placed, but had been there all along.

"I think I dreamed about this," you whispered. "This place. This moment. You."

A strange kind of knowing settled in my chest, something I couldn't explain, something older than either of us.

"Tell me," I said.

You set the book aside and leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, your face half-lit by the firelight. "It wasn't like a normal dream," you began. "It felt… ancient. Like I was watching something happen, but I wasn't me. And you weren't you."

I swallowed. "Then who were we?"

You shook your head, a crease forming between your brows. "I don't know. But we were here. Not this house, not exactly. But the garden was there. And the roses. And the storm." You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temples. "I don't know why, but I feel like we've done this before."

A gust of wind howled against the window, rattling the panes. The candle on the table flickered, its flame bending as if listening.

I stood and walked toward the window, pressing my palm lightly against the cool glass. Beyond the rain, the garden stretched into darkness, the white and blue roses swaying under the weight of the storm.

I wanted to tell you that I didn't believe in fate. That the past was just the past, and the present was all that mattered.

But when I turned back to look at you, sitting there in the dim firelight, your eyes holding the reflection of something I couldn't name—

I wasn't so sure anymore.