Before Julia even has a chance to question the man, he vanishes into thin air once more, leaving her in a state of helpless panic.
She stands frozen at first, like her mind and body have suddenly forgotten how to move in sync.
Her chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven bursts, like she's trying to breathe but the air won't quite reach her lungs.
Wide eyes dart around her surroundings, glassy and wild, as if searching for something to hold onto — something solid, something safe — but finding nothing, not until she realizes that something is quite familiar.
She focuses her gaze around her, checking the detail of the location.
A rustic house standing quietly at the edge of a clearing, its walls worn with time and weather. The roof, a patchwork of old tin sheets and wooden beams, shelters the structure from rain and sun. It's solid enough to keep out the elements, but when you step inside, you realize something's missing.
There's no ceiling.
It's ice cold during the evening and you feel like a grilled squid during the morning.
It's not simply just an old house; it's her house.
She felt a mixed feeling of excitement and longing.
It was like stepping into a photograph she thought she'd lost—faded at the edges but achingly familiar.
A lump rose in her throat—not sadness exactly, but a tender ache for something that no longer quite belonged to her, yet would always be hers.
Julia's face lit up when her eyes landed on the old appliances, each one like a time capsule from her childhood.
But it was the television that truly caught her breath—their very first one. Bulky and boxy, with a curved screen and a frame that took up half the cabinet, it stood proudly like it hadn't aged a day.
That TV had filled the house with laughter, Saturday morning cartoons, and family movie nights—the kind of magic that made a home feel full.
As her eyes wandered through the house, they paused at the kitchen—and something shifted.
A strange feeling crept in, subtle at first, then slowly settling over her like a fog. It wasn't quite sadness, but not comfort either.
It was the weight of familiarity, of routines long gone and scents that lived only in memory.
The kitchen feels like a page torn from another time — a space that's lived through generations and still whispers stories in the quiet.
Faded brown wallpaper gently peeled at the corners, stained here and there by smoke and the slow creep of time. The wooden floor creaks underfoot, its boards scuffed and darkened by years of footsteps, spills, and hurried mornings.
Along the counter, kitchen wares sit like tired old soldiers. A cast-iron skillet, blackened from decades of use, rests on the man-made stove with pieces of wood inside— its handle smooth and shiny where countless hands have gripped it.
Nearby, a dented kettle hums quietly, its whistle long broken but still loyal in its duty.
Stacked dishes, slightly chipped at the edges, bear delicate patterns half-worn away from endless washing and meals shared.
Something in her chest tightened the moment her eyes landed on their old kitchenware—worn, familiar, and heavy with memories.
Julia walks slowly to the wooden table. It stands sturdy and unshaken at the heart of the room, heavy with age and memory. Its surface is a mosaic of scratches, faded rings from old mugs, and knife marks from hurried chopping — every imperfection a quiet story etched into the grain.
She remembers her whole family sharing a meal together when she's just a little girl.
The very room that hums with quiet laughter and the clinking of cutlery. A simple wooden table, slightly crowded but welcoming, is covered with mismatched plates filled with steaming, humble dishes — rice, a pot of hearty stew, warm bread, and a bowl of fresh vegetables glistening with oil and herbs.
Around the table, her family gathers — no one dressed up, just comfort and closeness.
But over the years, that feeling slowly faded away since life happened.
She brushes away the memories that try to resurface but something catches her eyes and attention— a carved wooden chair, reminding her of the very person who carved it.
Her father.
And the moment her eyes landed on it, something in her chest shifted—a deep, aching pull.
The chair stands with quiet grace, carved from solid oak, its surface darkened and polished by time and touch. Though modest in shape, it carries an elegance in its details — a floral motif lovingly etched into its arms and backrest, where vines curl and twist into blooming petals, as if nature herself paused to leave her mark in the wood.
She reached out, fingertips grazing the worn armrest, and for a second, time folded in on itself. It wasn't just a chair. It was his presence. His absence. And everything in between.
The tears she had been holding back broke free, streaming down her cheeks before she could stop them.
She bit her lower lip hard, desperate to keep the sob buried deep, to keep the silence intact. But her body betrayed her—shoulders trembling, breath catching—as if every part of her had waited years for this unraveling.
"Well, how do you feel?"
The man's voice came suddenly, snapping her out of the moment. Julia jumped slightly, a mix of embarrassment and surprise tightening in her chest.
She buried her face in her hands, trying to compose herself, then slowly wiped her wet cheeks, hoping he hadn't seen too much.
"Do you miss your old house that much, young lady?" he said again, his voice calm, almost amused, as he stepped closer.
Her breath hitched.
"W–who the hell are you?" Julia asked, her voice shaky, retreating a step as her back brushed against the kitchen counter. The man stood calm and composed, like he belonged in the house more than she did.
"You don't remember me," he said quietly, almost sadly. "But we've met before, many times."
Her eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"You've lived before, Julia. More than once." He took a slow step closer, reaching into his coat. "And it's time for you to remember."
She opened her mouth to protest, but the words never came. Her breath caught as he pulled something from his pocket—a golden pocket watch, delicate and gleaming. The chain glinted in the dim light, and on it were two birds, wings outstretched, across from one another as though frozen mid-flight.
Something stirred inside her at the sight. Not recognition, exactly—more like a distant echo, a forgotten melody playing faintly in another room.
"This belongs to you," he said. "It always has."
She shook her head. "This is insane. I don't believe in any of this—past lives, fate, whatever this is supposed to be."
"You don't have to believe," he said, unfazed. "Not yet. Just know this: when the time comes—when you're desperate enough—you'll know how to use it. This watch will take you back. To all the lives you've lived before."
Her lips parted to argue, but everything around her started to blur. The man's voice grew distant, the kitchen seemed to dissolve around her, and a heavy wave of sleep crashed over her without warning.
She jolted awake.
The room was dark. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she sat up in bed, tangled in the sheets, breath ragged.
A dream, she thought. Just a strange, vivid dream.
But then her fingers twitched. She felt something cool, something solid, in her palm.
Slowly, she opened her hand.
The golden pocket watch rested there.
Real. Heavy. Warm from her grip.
The delicate chain wrapped around her wrist, and the two birds glinted in the pale morning light, staring back at her as if they'd never left.
Her mouth went dry. Her heart pounded.
"No," she whispered. "No, this isn't possible."
But the weight of the watch said otherwise.