Chapter 11: Almost Forgetting
At two years old, Eva had lived more lives than anyone around her could guess. Her small hands, which once sorted logic puzzles with a precision few adults could match, now curled around brightly colored cups in the playroom of their new home. The old mansion, with its coffered ceilings and vast rose gardens, was gone. In its place stood a pristine modern house with floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek furnishings, and a curated sense of safety.
The move had been quiet, deliberate. Her parents hadn't explained much—not to her, not even to each other beyond the necessary logistics. But Eva understood. Somewhere in her sharp little mind, she remembered the man with the strange eyes, the pressure of something wrong in the air, the soft crying that came from her own chest.
Now, in this new country, on a quiet lane nestled in an affluent but anonymous neighborhood, the world felt simpler again. New names, new people, a new rhythm. Her last name was different now—something elegant but vague, easy to pronounce, and impossible to trace.
She had asked, once, when they arrived, "Are we still us?"
Her auntie vivi had crouched in front of her, smoothing her hair with a hand far too gentle for someone with such calloused palms. "Always us, sweetheart," she'd said. "Just safer."
And so Eva adjusted.
*****
She laughed more now.
Not the quiet, awkward chuckle of a child trying to imitate a sound she hadn't made in her past life—but real laughter. Full and unrestrained, bursting from her like bubbles. It came when her aunt spun her around in the kitchen until she was dizzy. It came when her mama made the duck puppet voice that was so absurdly quacky it reduced her to hiccups. It came when the family cat—a new one, sleek and indigo-eyed—jumped too high and missed the countertop.
At first, it felt unfamiliar. Her own laughter startled her. But with each day that passed, the memories of her old life dulled just a little more, like pages of a book she couldn't quite find again.
She still had moments—quiet pauses in the middle of coloring or humming when she'd stare into space and frown. But they were brief. The ache of "before" faded under the weight of "now."
*****
Their new neighborhood was beautiful in an entirely different way. Gone were the ivy-covered stone walls and towering gates. This place had polished sidewalks, community gardens, and neighbors who waved but didn't pry.
To everyone else, they were simply the new family in the white house with the black shutters—quiet, rich, and intensely private. There were rumors, of course. Some said they were international businesspeople. Others guessed old money or rare art dealers.
No one guessed the truth.
Eva's parents made sure of that.
Her papa, now going by a new surname, kept a low profile—working remotely, rarely leaving the house except to accompany Eva on walks. Her mama adjusted even more swiftly, mastering the local language with chilling ease and redirecting any social curiosity with an elegant smile and nothing more.
And Eva? She explored.
*****
The new house had a sunroom that caught light all afternoon, a small reading nook beneath a round window, and an indoor play area filled with every educational toy imaginable. She was given free rein to choose what she wanted each day: piano in the morning, painting after lunch, a story before nap.
But more than any of that—what captivated her most was the laughter.
Not just her own, but her family's.
Her aunt had moved with them, of course. No one ever discussed it. She simply came, folding herself into their daily lives with a fierceness that never dulled. She carried Eva constantly, kissed her cheeks until they were red, and made up silly songs about bananas and jellyfish that made no sense and didn't have to.
She was the only one who still called Eva "my bean."
One afternoon, Eva lay in her aunt's lap on the velvet couch, tracing invisible shapes on her aunt's hand with a single finger.
"Why do you always carry me?" she asked.
Her aunt tilted her head. "Because I can."
"But I can walk."
"You can," she agreed. "But you're still small enough to hold. And one day, you won't be."
Eva blinked. That thought made her chest feel strange.
Her aunt leaned down and bumped her nose softly. "And besides, you're my favorite luggage."
Eva giggled until her face hurt.
*****
She was still brilliant. Her genius didn't vanish with the change in zip code.
She still solved puzzles designed for six-year-olds. Still answered rhetorical questions with factual precision. Still recited poetry after a single reading.
But she also began mispronouncing words on purpose.
"Ephalant," she said, one day.
Her mama turned from the stove, brows lifting. "Did you mean elephant, sweetheart?"
"No," Eva said. "It's ephalant today."
And they let it be.
They let her be.
She made silly drawings with crayon blobs and called them "Masterpieces of Emotion." She once asked if clouds could "fall down if they were tired," and when her papa tried to explain weather systems, she interrupted with, "Shh. I want the pretend version."
She played pretend.
She never had, before.
*****
One morning, she woke up and couldn't remember her old name.
Not the name she'd been given when she was born into her past life—the one from her other world, the one that had once felt etched into her bones.
She sat in bed, blinking, thinking. But all that came to her was Evangeline.
That was her name now.
That was enough.
She climbed out of bed and padded down the hallway in her footie pajamas. Her aunt was humming in the kitchen. Her mama was at the sink, hair in a messy bun. Her papa sat at the table reading the paper with a steaming mug of tea.
When they saw her, they smiled.
And Eva—Eva ran to them.
She ran.
Her aunt scooped her up and twirled her like the wind. Her mama kissed her nose. Her papa wrapped her in a hug he always seem tense, he smelled like cedarwood and calm.
She laughed.
And the past dissolved just a little more.
*****
Later that day, while her papa worked and her mama took a call in the study, Eva sat beside her aunt with her tiny legs stretched out across the couch.
They watched a cartoon together. Something loud and silly with animals that danced.
Eva leaned her head against her aunt's arm. "Do you think…" she paused, chewing her lip, "do you think we'll always live here?"
Her aunt considered it. "For a while, I think."
"And will I get bigger?"
"Yes, little bean."
"And when I get big, will I still want to laugh?"
Her aunt turned toward her, eyes crinkling with that look Eva had grown to treasure. "You'll want to laugh even more."
"Good," Eva whispered, closing her eyes.
The cartoon played on.
Outside, the sun dipped behind the trees, casting golden light across the windows.
And in that quiet living room, where nothing extraordinary happened except love, Eva forgot a little more of the life she'd once lived.
And she smiled.