You, the Whisper Across Lifetime

Chapter 16: Pandemic Routine

I think I lost track of time.

Life blurred into routine—house chores, managing work deadlines, and helping the kids with their endless school-from-home assignments. The world outside kept changing, but inside the house, days felt repetitive. Quietly busy. Emotionally numb.

Every day the news carried the same rhythm: numbers rising, hospitals stretched thin, uncertainty growing. But between the fear, there were also fragments of hope—stories of people recovering, of communities helping each other, of a vaccine finally being developed.

I held onto those.

Maybe because somewhere inside, I knew I was also waiting. Not just for the world to reopen, but for the pieces of my vision to complete.

The memory of that long journey hadn't left me. It came in flashes, scattered across days. I could feel the sharp heat of the sun on my face, then the cold desert wind stinging my bruised skin. Sometimes the road stretched so far I couldn't see the end—just dust, silence, and the sound of hooves clacking against dry stone.

The pain was constant. Not sharp, but deep. Worn into my bones. Every step a negotiation between breath and endurance.

But the nights…

The nights were different.

There was nothing in the world like that sky. Vast. Endless. The stars didn't twinkle—they blazed. And the Milky Way wasn't a concept—it was a river of light cutting through the heavens. I remember lying on the hard earth, my body aching, and yet staring up in wonder.

That was the strange part. Even in that suffering, the beauty still held me.

I still didn't know what life that memory belonged to. Or who I was then. There were no names, no clear faces—just sensations. The rhythm of hooves, the dust in my throat, the slow ache and agony. And always the sky—wide and watchful above me.

It didn't feel tied to anyone yet. Just a quiet endurance. A journey toward something dear to me, even if I couldn't name it.

Was it connected to Kaelen? Maybe. Maybe not. The vision didn't answer. It simply returned night after night in fragments, like a story too old to be told all at once.

Kaelen, meanwhile, was busier than ever.

Our chats thinned down to the basics—his ritual good morning, and sometimes just a single-line reply to whatever message I sent. I didn't take it personally. I understood how much pressure he was under. Still, the silence had a shape. It filled in the quiet hours between meetings and household routines like an absence I didn't know how to name.

News kept rolling in.

The COVID vaccine finally rolled out. My brother's family got the first batch, since both he and his wife worked for the government. The after-effects were strong—fever, chills, fatigue. They stayed quarantined again on the second floor. The house adjusted, like it always did. Everyone in their corners, adapting.

Kaelen and I… fell into rhythm again. A quieter one.

Our chatroom was reduced to simple check-ins.

"Good morning."

"Sleep well?"

"Take care."

It wasn't that I doubted his presence. He was still there. But I felt him drift slightly—busy, maybe overwhelmed. It was hard to tell. We were both holding too much. Maybe neither of us had the right words for the weight of everything.

I didn't push. I didn't chase.

Some evenings, I'd scroll through our older messages. Our debates. Our banter. Those long back-and-forths about history and politics, cultural shifts, food, films, old cities, soul theories. I'd forgotten how much we used to talk—not just check in.

I wondered if he missed it too.

Meanwhile, the days felt strangely elastic. Time moved, but it didn't register. I'd look at the calendar and realize a week had passed. Then two. I had deadlines, and I met them. I had kids to care for, and I did. But something inside me moved slowly. Like a part of me had curled inward to wait for… something.

Maybe clarity.

Maybe peace.

Or maybe just a proper ending to all the unfinished feelings.

The vision still lingered, of course. The journey. The stars. But I didn't force it. I knew better than to drag the past forward before it was ready to speak.

For now, I stayed grounded. One day at a time. One task at a time.

It was strange how life could feel so quiet and so heavy at once.

Then the news came—one of my best friends, Auriel, had contracted COVID. Not just her, but her husband and their young son too.

Auriel was a psychic—stronger than me, in my opinion. Sharp and grounded. Her tarot readings were scarily accurate. She had become a spiritual consultant for higher-ups, people with influence and decisions on their shoulders.

She had hinted earlier that she wasn't feeling great, especially after one of her clients died of COVID. I think, in her own quiet way, she had prepared herself for this.

She told me in that steady, practical tone she always used when things got serious. Said she was okay, just tired. Told me not to worry. But I could hear it in her voice—this time, the strength was mostly for others.

We were close, though we lived far apart. Still, I felt the weight of it. For she was the one whom I shared all my story. And always supportive. That invisible string of worry that tugged on me all day.

Thankfully, a few of our friends who lived nearby stepped in. They dropped off supplies like medicine, herbal drinks, vitamins—anything that might help. And, of course, a few silly gifts to lift her spirits. That's the kind of friendship we had—no need for daily calls, just a steady net that always caught you when you needed it.

Auriel lived with her parents, like I did. That made it harder. She wasn't just trying to heal—she was trying to protect everyone else, too. Even in the middle of all that fear, she still made me laugh.

She texted us one night about trying to steam herbs with her mother, and how it turned into an argument about who should lean over the boiling pot first.

> "We looked like witches fighting for turns at the cauldron," she wrote.

I smiled at my phone for the first time that day.

That was Auriel. She could deliver tragedy and comedy in one breath, and somehow make both feel real. I admired that in her—how she held sadness and humor together, without letting either lose their truth.

Auriel wasn't just my best friend. She was the person. The one who knew every corner of my story—the messy, the magical, the moments I didn't even say out loud. I told her first when I began to see Kaelen in visions. I told her when he messaged something that shook my bones. And when I told her about my past-life death, she didn't even blink.

She never did. Maybe because she saw things too.

To the world, Auriel was composed. A little distant. That kind of psychic who spoke with clarity, dressed with class, and always kept just enough mystery to make her clients feel like they were speaking to someone from another plane. And to be honest, she was—a powerful shaman, precise with tarot, with a gift that felt sharper than mine. But with me?

She was just Auriel. The woman who'd send me blurry selfies in face masks and pajamas, who swore like a sailor in traffic, who could curse a ghost in three languages and then ask if I wanted ramen or sushi.

We rarely needed to call each other in a crisis. One message was enough. Sometimes just a voice note, an emoji, or a half-finished sentence. We had the kind of bond where words weren't explanations—they were confirmations.

We already knew.

If something happened to her, I'd feel it before she said a word. If something shifted in me, she'd sense it too. That's just how it was between us. Like a quiet signal always running in the background, tuning us in to each other.

She read me better than I read myself, and when she was off—even slightly—I didn't need to ask. I'd just know.

So when I told her about the vision—the journey, the sky, the ache I couldn't place—she didn't ask me to explain. She just listened.

"Maybe it's not just a memory," she said. "Maybe it's a bridge."

"To where?" I asked.

"To whoever's been waiting on the other side."

That's how she was. Cool, blunt, and weirdly poetic when you least expected it.

We always joked that if we didn't end up with our soulmates, we'd retire somewhere quiet together. Somewhere with mountains and fog. She'd have her ritual corner, I'd have my garden. We'd probably still gossip about spirits like they were neighbors.