The scent of lilies lingered in the air long after they left the cemetery.
Elira walked beside Alexander, their steps echoing softly under the pale glow of the streetlights. Neither of them spoke for a long time, and yet the silence between them didn't feel empty. It felt like something fragile was beginning to form—like the first breath after surfacing from deep underwater.
Alexander kept glancing at her when he thought she wouldn't notice. She did, of course—but said nothing.
In truth, he was trying to piece together the strange tug in his chest. Standing beside her grave—Solana's grave—should've brought only grief. But tonight… there had been something else. Something warm. Comforting.
Hope.
It unsettled him.
"I shouldn't have come here," he muttered finally, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "It's been years. I thought I was past this."
Elira looked up at him, her eyes soft and unreadable. "Grief doesn't vanish. It just changes form."
He blinked. "You say that like you've lived it."
She smiled faintly. "I have."
He stopped walking. Turned to face her.
"Who are you, Elira?"
She inhaled deeply. This again.
"I told you once," she said gently. "But you weren't ready to believe it."
"You can't expect me to—" His voice faltered. "You look so much like her, but you're younger. You're…" He exhaled slowly, shaking his head.
"I was born the day she died," Elira whispered. "I took my first breath the same moment she took her last."
He stared at her, eyes narrowing. "How would you know that?"
"I remember," she said simply. "I remember the ceiling tiles in the hospital. The way your hand shook when you held mine. The song you sang to me when you thought I was asleep."
Alexander's heart thundered in his chest.
He had never told anyone about the song. Not even the twins. It had been a lullaby from his childhood—one his own mother used to sing—and he had whispered it into Solana's ear the night before she died.
No one else could possibly know.
And yet this girl—this woman—did.
His breath hitched. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"I'm not playing anything."
"You expect me to believe that you're—what? Reincarnated? That my dead wife is now a twenty-two-year-old intern in my company?"
Elira didn't flinch. "No. I don't expect you to believe anything. I only want you to listen."
The wind picked up, rustling the trees overhead.
"I've watched you mourn her for years," she continued softly. "I've watched you close yourself off from love, from your children, from life. I've waited… so long… just to stand here beside you again."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
"I came back because I wasn't finished loving you."
Alexander stepped back. His mind reeled—logic and emotion crashing violently.
He wanted to scream. To deny. To accuse.
But all he could do was whisper, "This isn't real."
And then he turned and walked away—into the darkness, leaving her standing there alone.
---
The next day at De León Enterprises was anything but normal.
Word had spread fast about the success of Elira's campaign pitch. People began looking at her differently—not just as the "pretty newcomer," but as someone with actual influence.
Some were impressed. Others envious.
"Here comes the CEO's new favorite," a male staffer muttered as she passed.
Elira pretended not to hear. But Yssa didn't.
"Hey!" Yssa snapped. "Jealousy doesn't look good on your face, Roger."
He scowled and walked off.
Elira sighed. "Thanks."
"Ugh, people are the worst when someone actually has talent," Yssa said. "Especially when that someone is beautiful and mysterious and low-key glows like an anime heroine."
Elira laughed.
But her thoughts were far from the office drama.
Alexander hadn't spoken to her since the cemetery. No calls. No messages. Nothing.
She tried not to let it hurt.
She failed.
---
Alexander didn't sleep.
He spent most of the night replaying her words, her voice, the quiet certainty in her eyes. He searched through old recordings, photos, journals—anything that could offer logic. But nothing explained how she knew things only Solana would.
It terrified him.
Because what if it was true?
What if this wasn't grief or madness—but something real?
Could he even accept it?
---
The next morning, Jacob entered his office.
"Sir, the board loved the campaign mock-ups. They're requesting Elira lead the next client presentation."
Alexander blinked. "She's not ready for that level."
"She is, sir. The clients specifically asked for her."
He hesitated. Then finally: "Fine. Set it up."
Jacob nodded and left.
Alexander leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
Solana. Elira.
Were they… the same?
He rubbed his face and stood abruptly. He needed air.
---
Elira stood at the café down the street, clutching her hot tea tightly as she waited for her order. It was early—too early for most staff—but she needed a moment alone before the storm of the workday.
She heard the bell above the door jingle.
Her body tensed before she even turned around.
He was there.
Alexander.
Wearing a black coat and an unreadable expression.
"Elira," he said.
She looked up slowly. "Sir."
He stepped closer. "I need to speak with you. Somewhere private."
She nodded. "We can go to the rooftop terrace."
---
Minutes later, the wind whipped gently across the rooftop. The sun peeked through thin clouds, casting a soft morning glow over the city.
Alexander stood beside her, his face unreadable.
"I didn't sleep," he said finally. "Because I kept thinking about what you said."
She turned to face him. "And?"
"I still don't believe in reincarnation."
"I know."
"But—" he paused, exhaling hard. "There are things you said… things no one could know."
Elira's heart fluttered.
"I don't know what to do with that," he said, eyes pained. "Because if I even begin to believe it… I risk losing my mind."
She stepped closer. "Then don't try to believe. Just feel."
He looked at her—truly looked.
And for the first time in years, Alexander reached out and gently touched her cheek.
The world stilled.
"I've missed you," he whispered. "Even if I don't understand why."
"I've always been here," she breathed. "Waiting."
He leaned forward.
But stopped inches away.
"I can't do this," he whispered. "Not yet."
"I'll wait."
"You shouldn't."
"I will."
He nodded, stepping back. The spell broke—but the connection didn't.
Not anymore.
---
Over the next few weeks, the shift between them became impossible to ignore.
They didn't touch. They didn't flirt.
But their eyes found each other across rooms. Their conversations deepened. She challenged him. He protected her. He found excuses to visit the creative department. She brought him coffee without asking.
The office whispered.
But they said nothing.
Until one day, during a meeting, she passed him a note beneath the table.
"I remember our wedding day. You dropped the ring twice because your hands were shaking."
He looked at her.
Her expression was calm. Confident. Loving.
His chest tightened painfully.
Because she was right.
---
That night, at home, Aria watched her father from the stairs.
He sat in his study, staring at an old photo album.
Not just staring. Smiling.
She hadn't seen that in… forever.
"Something's happening," she said quietly to Aiden, who stood behind her.
He crossed his arms. "Yeah. I noticed."
"You met her, didn't you?"
"Elira? Yeah."
"What do you think?"
He hesitated. "I think she's dangerous."
Aria blinked. "Dangerous?"
"Not in a bad way. Just… she makes him feel again. That's scary."
Aria frowned. "But isn't that a good thing?"
"I don't know," Aiden said honestly. "I just know… she's not normal."
---
Meanwhile, in her apartment, Elira opened a small box hidden at the back of her closet.
Inside was a necklace.
An old one. Rusted slightly. But precious.
Solana's wedding gift from Alexander—a silver locket engraved with their initials: A & S.
She had been buried with it.
But when Elira was born, her mother had found the necklace wrapped tightly around her wrist—impossible to explain.
Her parents kept it hidden for years.
She had retrieved it on her eighteenth birthday.
And now, as she held it in her palm, she knew:
He was beginning to remember her—not just with his mind…
But with his heart.