The evening air was soft and heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth, the kind of quiet stillness that wrapped around the world like silk.
Celine sat by the window, a half-finished cup of tea cooling on the table beside her, her gaze fixed on the faint shimmer of city lights beyond the garden wall. The golden hue of the setting sun bled into muted pinks and purples, painting the sky like a watercolor left too long in the rain.
It had been almost a year.
A full, strange, miraculous year since she had opened her eyes in this world — in a body that wasn't hers, in a life she didn't recognize. And somehow, through confusion, fear, and grief, she had made it hers.
The ticking of the wall clock filled the room in gentle rhythm. She traced her fingers along the porcelain rim of her cup, the faint warmth grounding her.
How odd, she thought, that peace could be found in something so simple.
She remembered how it used to be — the endless exhaustion of her old life, the sleepless nights, the gnawing emptiness of a routine that drained her from the inside out. The memory still lingered, though it felt more like a distant dream now, a life half-lived in another universe.
Here, in this borrowed existence, she had learned what it meant to breathe again.
Her thoughts drifted to the people who had become her family — not by blood, but by choice.
Mira, whose gentle warmth could soothe even the sharpest wound.
Theo, whose humor could lift the darkest clouds.
Lila, fierce and loyal, who would stand between her and the world without hesitation.
And Jamie — quiet, thoughtful Jamie — who had once told her, "You don't have to earn belonging. Sometimes it's already yours."
They had become her anchor, her circle of life.
Her lips curved softly as she thought of the moment Mira had sent that message in their group chat weeks ago. We're expecting!
The joy that had followed had been overwhelming — not just for Mira, but for all of them. It had felt like a milestone not only in Mira's life but in their collective journey, proof that the world kept moving forward, even after heartbreak and loss.
Celine had insisted on hosting the celebration herself.
"It'll be perfect," she had said. And somehow, it had been.
She could still smell the faint traces of that evening — jasmine drifting through the warm summer air, the sweetness of baked pastries, the smoky edge of grilled spice.
In her mind's eye, the scene unfurled again like a photograph coming to life.
The garden had been transformed into a dreamscape of light and laughter. Strings of fairy lights hung between the trees, glowing like captured stars. Lanterns floated gently in the pool's reflection, their golden orbs swaying with the soft breeze.
Mira had glowed under their radiance, her joy radiating like sunlight through glass. Theo had made everyone laugh until tears streamed down their faces, while Lila pretended to scold him, failing miserably each time she tried to suppress her grin.
And Jamie had stood quietly near the table, hands wrapped around his teacup, simply watching — the way he always did — with eyes that saw more than anyone realized.
Celine remembered moving among them, her heart swelling with quiet pride. The conversations, the clinking of glasses, the unguarded laughter — it had all been so ordinary, yet so precious.
She remembered Kael too — standing at the edge of the celebration, a silent observer cloaked in his usual composure. But that night, there had been something different in his expression, something softer. He hadn't needed to speak; his quiet presence had been enough.
At one point, when she'd struggled to reach a lantern string, he had appeared behind her, wordlessly steadying her hand. She hadn't thanked him aloud, but her heart had.
That small moment — fleeting, unspoken — had meant more than she could explain.
Now, as the memory played across her mind, she let out a small breath.
"Maybe that's what happiness really is," she murmured. "Not something loud or grand. Just… quiet moments you don't want to end."
Her reflection in the window wavered with the fading light. The woman staring back looked calmer than she ever remembered being — her eyes softer, her smile faint but real.
Celine Arden.
That name had once felt like a mask she was forced to wear. Now, it was hers.
The wind shifted outside, rustling the leaves. The faint strains of music — soft piano notes — drifted from the radio she'd left playing on low volume. It mingled with the hum of crickets and the whisper of night.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and the edges of her memories blurred into something dreamlike. She could almost see it again — the garden glowing, her friends gathered close, Mira's laughter ringing through the night like a song.
It was as if she stood there once more, glass in hand, the glow of lanterns painting her skin gold. The laughter swelled, the music deepened. Someone toasted to love, someone else to friendship.
The stars seemed closer that night, almost within reach.
Celine remembered tilting her head back, eyes tracing constellations she didn't know the names of. For a fleeting moment, she had felt weightless — part of something vast and infinite, yet grounded in the simple joy of belonging.
Her hand lifted to her chest, feeling the soft rhythm of her heartbeat. "If this is what I came here for," she whispered, "then it was worth it."
The words lingered in the air, fragile as a candle flame.
She rose from her seat and turned off the light, moving toward her bed. The room was bathed in silver moonlight, the curtains swaying gently in the evening breeze. She slipped beneath the cool sheets, the faint scent of lavender rising from the fabric.
For a moment, she just lay there — listening to the world breathe outside.
The weight of the day pressed softly against her, not as exhaustion, but as contentment. Her eyes drifted shut, and the last image in her mind was her friends' smiling faces under the fairy lights.
Her lips curved into a sleepy smile.
"I hope this never ends," she whispered into the quiet.
But somewhere in the stillness, something shifted.
It was faint at first — a low hum beneath her skin, like a heartbeat not her own. A flicker of dizziness brushed the edge of her awareness. She frowned slightly, blinking against the sudden wave of warmth that flooded her senses.
The air in the room thickened, the shadows deepening unnaturally.
Her fingers twitched against the sheets. The rhythmic ticking of the clock slowed… then stopped.
Celine's eyes snapped open, confusion threading through her chest.
For a second, everything was silent — too silent.
Then, like a ripple through still water, the world seemed to tilt. The soft light fractured, bending and twisting, as if reality itself were being pulled apart at the seams.
The warmth in her body turned cold, her vision swimming. She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt heavy, her breaths shallow.
The room blurred around her. The sound of her heartbeat thundered in her ears, fast and frantic.
And just before the darkness took her, a voice — distant, echoing — whispered through the void:
"Begin again."
Then came the fall.
The stars outside her window flared once — bright and sharp — and vanished into black.