Chapter Seven: Fractures in the Mirror
Isabelle had the dream again.
But this time, she didn't wake up screaming.
She watched.
In the dream, she stood barefoot on dew-soaked grass. A silver fog coiled low around her feet. Trees towered like silent sentinels overhead, and beyond them, the crooked willow—the one from the woods—loomed, glowing faintly with an inner light.
A girl stood beneath it, back straight, eyes wild with fear and knowing.
She was dressed in linen and lace. 1920s.
Eliza.
The girl turned slowly, and Isabelle saw her own face—slightly altered. Sharper cheekbones. Freckles. The same eyes.
"You've come back," Eliza said. "I didn't think you would."
"I don't understand—"
Eliza stepped forward. "You always say that. But you do. Somewhere deep, you know who Cordelia is. Who I am. Who you were. You just won't let yourself remember."
Behind her, the willow's trunk pulsed, and a dark crack split open at the base—like a door.
From within, came a voice: warm, feminine, echoing.
"Three lives. One soul. And time is thinning."
Isabelle jolted awake, drenched in sweat. But the images lingered—clearer than ever.
She fumbled for Belle's diary, flipping pages like a madwoman.
This time, she found something she'd missed before: a pressed flower hidden in the spine, brittle but intact.
Lavender.
She turned to the front page and saw a barely-there pencil note, scrawled across the margin.
"To remember is to return. To return is to choose."
Choose what?
The next day, at school, Isabelle couldn't focus. History class faded into white noise. Even Rachel noticed.
"You look like you haven't slept in days," she said at lunch. "Are you okay?"
"I think I'm remembering things that aren't mine," Isabelle blurted.
Rachel blinked. "Like... past life stuff?"
Isabelle nodded.
Rachel leaned in. "Okay. I know someone. My aunt's a regression therapist. Weird, I know, but she's done readings for people who swear by it."
Isabelle hesitated. It sounded ridiculous. And yet—
"Can you give me her number?"
That evening, Isabelle sat in a darkened room lit by salt lamps and candles. The woman across from her—Dr. Helena Wu—had kind eyes and a voice like water.
"Relax," she said. "Let's see where your soul has been before."
Isabelle closed her eyes.
Dr. Wu's voice guided her downward, inward.
And then—light.
She was running barefoot down a marble corridor. Oil lamps flickered along the walls. Her dress was silk. Her name was—
"Cassia."
She saw her hands—olive-toned, adorned with gold rings.
A palace.
A decision.
A betrayal.
She gasped as heat filled her lungs. Flames. Screams.
Then, darkness.
Next, she stood on a ship. Sea spray stung her cheeks. Her name this time—
"Belle."
A diary in her hands. A war behind her. A promise unfulfilled.
Then: water. Cold, endless water.
And finally, the willow again.
Only this time, Cordelia emerged.
She was neither young nor old, neither light nor shadow. Her presence hummed with knowledge.
"You're waking up," Cordelia said gently. "But you must remember fully, or the cycle repeats."
"Why me?" Isabelle asked.
Cordelia smiled.
"Because you asked to come back."