Life is a series of puzzle pieces. The individual pieces often make no sense on their own, yet you feel a truth within them, even when you cannot grasp it. When you look back, you begin to see that every piece was guiding you toward the path your soul was always meant to walk- toward your highest timeline, your purpose. So notice the pieces. Nothing is a coincidence.

MEUM. TUUM. UNUM.

MINE. YOURS. ONE.

MEINS. DEINS. EINS.

333

For my FAMILY! THANK YOU for always being there!

Before there were names, there was light. Not the kind born from stars. Not the kind that belongs to suns or fire. Something older. Softer. Alive. It moved through everything without resistance, flowing endlessly through a place where time did not exist yet. There were no beginnings there. No endings. No distance. Only presence.

And him.

I knew him before I knew myself. Not by face. Not by voice. But by feeling. A recognition so complete it could never be mistaken for anything else. He was the quiet pulse beneath eternity. The warmth within the light. The one thing that always felt like home. We existed without form, drifting through endless currents of gold and silver, woven together by something deeper than thought. There were no words then. We did not need them. Everything between us was understood. I felt him move toward me, and the light around us brightened instinctively, responding to us the way water responds to the moon. Like we belonged to it. Like it belonged to us. And somewhere within the endlessness, I understood: This would not last forever. Not like this. The realization carried no fear. Only certainty. We were meant to descend. To become smaller. Heavier. Human. I felt the weight of future lives brushing against us like distant echoes: Hands almost touching. Eyes meeting across crowded rooms. Lifetimes spent searching. Moments of finding. Moments of losing. Pain. Love. Separation. Return. The light shifted around us as if the universe itself was listening. And then, for the first time— I heard his voice. Not spoken. Felt. Deep within the centre of me.

Will you remember me?

The question wrapped itself around my soul like a trembling thread of gold. And instantly, I knew the answer. Not from hope. From truth. I moved closer to him, until there was no space left between us at all. Only warmth. Only light. Only us.

Always.

And suddenly— I became aware of it. A golden cord between us. Living light woven from something eternal. It stretched from him to me, from my soul to his, glowing softly within the endlessness around us. Unbreakable. Untouched by time. Untouched by worlds. I understood it instinctively. It could never be cut. Never be broken. No matter how far we fell into life. No matter how lost we became. No matter how many times we forgot. The cord would remain. Guiding us back.

Again. And again. And again.

The universe opened around us then. Infinite paths unfolding like rivers made of stars. Lives waiting to begin. Worlds waiting to be entered. I saw fragments of what we would become: Rain against windows. A bridge made of light. Hands reaching through darkness. Eyes filled with recognition. A love so powerful it would survive forgetting itself again and again. And still— we chose it. Not because it would be easy. Because it mattered. Because somewhere within all the pain and all the distance, we would become more than we were before. We would lift each other higher.

Again. And again. And again. Until even darkness remembered the light.

The pull of the currents around us grew stronger now, spiraling slowly downward into time, into flesh, into the fragile gravity of human lives. I felt fear then. Small. New. What if the world changed us? What if we forgot too completely? What if one of us stopped searching? The light around him softened instantly, wrapping around me with familiar calm. And once again, I felt his answer before the universe itself could speak.

Semper te inveniam. I will always find you.

The words settled into eternity like a promise written into the fabric of existence itself. A vow older than stars. Older than worlds. Older than time. And then— another truth moved between us. Ancient. Unshakable. Not spoken. Remembered.

We are each other’s alpha and omega. The beginning. The end. And every becoming in between.

Nihil hoc mutare potest. Nothing can ever change that.

Not time. Not distance. Not death. Not forgetting. Not even the worlds waiting to pull us apart. Because whatever form we took… whatever lives we entered… whatever darkness we crossed— we would always find each other. In every lifetime. Every world. Every version of reality. Always. The pull beneath us deepened. Reality forming. Lives waiting. And for the first time— I felt something new awaken inside me. Not certainty. Not memory. Something softer. Something that would survive even forgetting.

Faith.

Not a name. Not yet. A force. A choice. A light strong enough to keep searching even in darkness. Strong enough to believe before seeing. Strong enough to find him again and again across eternity. And somehow— I knew he felt it too. The universe trembled around us, waiting. Then his presence wrapped around mine one last time before the fall into life began. And I heard him. Clearer than anything.

Have faith in me.

A quiet smile moved through my soul.

I always will.

The pull beneath us became stronger. Reality forming. Lives waiting. The last thing I felt before everything dissolved into becoming— was him. And the love between us burning brighter than the beginning itself. Then— we fell into the world. And forgot.

For a while.

The dream always starts the same way. Darkness. Not the kind you see when you close your eyes. This darkness feels… endless. Like I’m floating inside something that has no edges, no beginning, no end.

Alpha and omega.

For a moment, there is nothing. No sound. No ground beneath my feet. Not even my own breath. And then— light. It appears slowly, like it’s waking up. A soft glow at first, barely there, stretching out in front of me.

A bridge. Made of light.

It shimmers, alive in a way I can’t explain. Not solid. Not unreal. Something in between. The surface pulses gently, like it’s breathing. Like it knows I’m here. I don’t question it. I never do. My feet move on their own, stepping onto the bridge. The moment I touch it, something opens. Warmth rises from beneath me, flowing into my body— up my legs, through my chest, into my arms. It’s not just warmth. It’s movement. Energy. It doesn’t stop at my skin. It moves through me. Up my spine. Slow. Steady. Inevitable. My breath catches. I’ve felt this before. Not just here. Somewhere else. Somewhere real. The thought flickers through me before I can hold onto it. Beneath my feet, the bridge hums softly. Like music. Like words carried by light. Ancient. Familiar. Just beyond understanding. I walk forward. The light beneath my feet pulses in rhythm with something inside me. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I can’t tell where it begins or where I end. And for a moment— there’s no difference. I stop. Something stretches between us. Invisible. Unbreakable. Not a chain. Not a rope. A thread. Golden. Alive. It hums softly in the space ahead of me, as if it has existed longer than time itself. Longer than memory. Longer than us. And then— I see him.

He’s there.

At the other end of the bridge. Just like every time. A figure standing still, surrounded by light. I can’t see his face. I never can. Only the outline— glowing, steady, real in a way everything else isn’t. His arms are slightly outstretched. Waiting. For me. My chest tightens. But not in fear. In recognition. The moment I see him, something inside me settles. Not because I know him. Because somehow, impossibly— he feels like home. Not a house. Not a place. The kind of home you carry inside your bones before you ever learn its name. The energy inside me rises again, stronger now, building, expanding. It moves higher, reaching my chest, filling it until it feels like light itself is pressing against my ribs, trying to break free. And for a second— everything is still. Perfectly still. No thoughts. No doubt. No separation. Just… knowing.

This is truth.

The realization isn’t spoken. It simply exists. And within it, something even deeper unfolds. We are not opposites. We are not two separate things reaching across nothing. We belong to the same light. The words don’t feel like something I’m thinking. They feel like something I’m remembering. The energy surges again, rising higher, reaching my throat, my mind— and suddenly I feel it. Not just me. Everything.

The bridge. The light. Him. Connected.

As if there is no distance between us at all. As if the space itself is an illusion I haven’t learned to dissolve yet. He doesn’t move. But I feel him. Clear. Steady. Certain. Like an anchor. Like he’s been standing there forever. Waiting.

She’s coming.

The thought slips into me, quiet but undeniable. Not mine. But not separate either. The golden thread between us pulses once. Soft. Bright. Alive. And then— it hits me. Not a thought. A knowing. Deep. Certain. Unshakable.

You’re mine.

The words don’t feel possessive. They feel like truth. Like something that has always existed— long before I understood it. The moment the thought forms, something answers. Not out loud. Not even in words. But I hear it anyway. Clear. Steady. Closer than my own thoughts.

I’m yours. A pause. And then— I always have been.

My breath catches. My heart races, the energy rising higher, almost overwhelming now, pressing against something inside my mind— and for a moment— I feel like if I let go completely… something would change. Not just here. Everywhere. The thought startles me. And just like that— it breaks. The light flickers. The connection fractures. The energy stutters, slipping out of alignment. No. Wait— I reach forward instinctively, panic rising for the first time.

“Wait—”

I wake up. Breathing hard. The darkness of my room closes in around me, heavy and solid. My chest is still warm— too warm— like something inside me hasn’t fully settled back into place. I press my hand against it. The feeling lingers. Faint now. But still there. Like an echo. Or a memory my body remembers… even if my mind doesn’t. I stare at the ceiling, my heart still racing. Same dream. Same bridge. Same him. But something was different. That feeling. That moment when everything aligned. When nothing felt separate. When it felt like I wasn’t just inside the dream… but connected to something beyond it. The thought sends a quiet shiver through me. I exhale slowly, trying to ground myself. It was just a dream. It always is. Right? My fingers tighten against the fabric of my shirt. The warmth in my chest pulses once. Soft. Steady. Waiting. And for the first time— I’m not sure the dream is something I’m having. I think it’s something I’m remembering. Not a place. Not just a dream. A promise. I sit up slowly. My room is still dark except for the pale line of early morning light slipping through the curtains. Everything looks normal in that fragile, almost-blue hour before the day fully begins. My desk. My books. The sweater I threw over the chair last night. The mirror beside the wardrobe. And there— hanging from a tiny hook beside the frame— my silver orca pendant. It catches the faint light as if it has been waiting for me to look at it.

I get out of bed quietly and cross the room. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet. My fingers close around the pendant. Smooth. Cool. Familiar. I’ve loved orcas for as long as I can remember. Not because they’re beautiful. Although they are. Not because they’re powerful. Although they are that, too. I love them because they’re loyal. Because they stay with their families. Because they protect each other. Because no matter how far they travel, they always seem to know where they belong. Kings of the sea. Strong enough to cross entire oceans. Faithful enough to return home. As a kid, I spent hours reading everything I could find about them. I learned that some orcas in captivity live only a fraction of the life they could have lived in the wild. That thought always broke my heart. A creature born to cross oceans should never spend its life swimming in circles. In the wild, some orcas can live for many decades, even close to a century. They inherit songs. Memories. Entire cultures. Families that remain connected for generations. One fact stayed with me more than any other:

Orcas always find each other.

Across impossible distances. Across years. Across entire oceans. Somehow, they always know where their family is. I don’t know why that idea always meant so much to me. Maybe because part of me wanted to believe the same thing was true for people. That no matter how lost you become. No matter how far you drift. The ones meant for you somehow find their way back. Or maybe— they were never truly gone. The pendant warms slightly beneath my fingers. Or maybe I imagine it. Beside it hangs another necklace. Older. Simpler. A Celtic knot forged from silver, darkened faintly with time. It belonged to my grandmother. My mother says she brought it with her from Scotland, wrapped in a handkerchief and tucked inside a small wooden box like it was something sacred. Grandma used to tell me stories about mist-covered hills and old stone circles. About castles that held more memories than walls should be able to carry. About places where the veil between worlds felt thinner than anywhere else. I was little when she told me those stories. Too little to understand why her voice changed whenever she spoke about home. Still, I remember the way her eyes looked. Bright. Far away. Full of something that hurt and healed at the same time. I take the Celtic knot from the hook and let it rest in my palm. The moment my fingers close around it— something brushes against me. Not a thought. Not my own memory. A feeling. Wind. Cold and wild. The smell of rain on stone. Salt carried from a distant sea. A woman laughing through tears. A hand pressed against an old wall, as if saying goodbye to something that would never fully let her go. Then— a sudden ache. Deep. Tender. Homesick. The feeling rushes through me so quickly I almost drop the necklace. I gasp softly. And just like that— it’s gone. Only my room remains. The mirror. The pendant. The necklace resting in my shaking palm. I stare at it for a long moment.

“What was that?”

My voice sounds too loud in the quiet room. The necklace doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t. I force a small laugh, but it comes out thin. Great. Now I’m getting haunted by jewellery. I set the Celtic knot down carefully, though part of me doesn’t want to let go of it. Then I reach for the notebook on my bedside table. The pages are already full. Bridges. Light. Endless water. The same dream drawn again and again in different versions. Sometimes the bridge is made of gold. Sometimes silver. Sometimes it arches over black water. Sometimes it disappears into stars. And always— always— there is a figure on the other end. I stopped showing the drawings to people years ago. There are only so many times you can hear the words

“That’s weird, Faith,” before you decide some things are safer kept private. I turn to a blank page and begin sketching before I can think too much. A line of light. A bridge. A figure. Then, without meaning to, I add a thin thread between us. Golden. Unbroken. My pencil pauses. I stare at it. Something in my chest answers softly. Not loud. Not frightening. Just present. Almost like it’s waiting. Downstairs, something crashes.

“Noah!” Hope yells.

I flinch. The pencil slips from my fingers. So much for cosmic mysteries. I pull on jeans and a soft green sweater, brush my hair quickly, and head downstairs. The smell of toast and coffee reaches me halfway down. The kitchen is already awake. Mom stands at the counter in one of Dad’s oversized sweaters, hair clipped messily at the back of her head while she butters toast with one hand and checks something on her phone with the other. Dad sits at the table with his coffee and the morning paper spread out like he is conducting official state business. Noah is standing by the cereal cabinet holding a box above his head. Hope is glaring up at him like she’s about to start a war.

“That is mine,” she says.

Noah looks at the box. Then at her.

“It says family size.”

“I am family.”

“So am I.”

“You ate yours yesterday.”

“I don’t believe in ownership before eight in the morning.”

Mom doesn’t even look up.

“Nobody is allowed to make philosophical arguments about cereal before coffee.”

Dad lifts his mug.

“I support this policy.”

Hope points dramatically at Noah.

“He’s oppressing me.”

Noah shakes the cereal box lightly.

“You’re twelve.”

“Exactly. A vulnerable demographic.”

I pause in the doorway, watching them. For a second, the dream still clings to me. Golden light. A bridge. A boy I’ve never seen but somehow know. Then Noah sees me.

“Faith. Settle this. Is cereal private property?”

I blink.

“What?”

Hope turns toward me immediately.

“Tell him he can’t steal my cereal.”

Noah scoffs.

“It was in the communal cabinet.”

Mom finally turns around.

“If either of you says communal again, I’m throwing the cereal away.”

Hope gasps.

“You wouldn’t.”

Mom raises one eyebrow.

Hope lowers her voice.

“She would.”

I slide into my seat, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my mouth.

“Give her the cereal, Noah.”

He stares at me like I betrayed him personally.

“I expected better from you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“True.”

He tosses the box onto the table. Hope catches it triumphantly and immediately pours far too much into her bowl. Dad lowers his newspaper just enough to look at me.

“You’re up early.”

I reach for a piece of toast.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Mom’s expression shifts instantly. Not dramatically. Just enough that I notice.

“Bad dream?”

My fingers tighten slightly around the toast.

“Same one.”

The kitchen quiets for half a second. Not completely. Noah still chews. Hope still pours milk like she’s defying physics. But Mom looks at me with that careful softness parents get when they want to ask more but know they shouldn’t push too hard. Dad folds the paper a little.

“The bridge again?”

I nod. Hope stops pouring milk.

“The glowing one?”

I look at her.

“You remember that?”

She shrugs.

“You drew it like four hundred times.”

Noah sits down across from me.

“Five hundred. Minimum.”

Hope points her spoon at him.

“You’re not part of this.”

“I live here.”

I almost laugh. Almost. Mom places a mug of tea in front of me even though I didn’t ask for one. Chamomile. Honey. The smell alone makes something inside me soften.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she says gently.

“I know.”

A pause. Then Hope leans forward, eyes narrowing.

“Was the mysterious bridge guy there again?”

I choke on my tea. Noah grins instantly.

“There’s a guy?”

“There’s always a guy,” Hope says, as if this is obvious.

“There is not always a guy.”

“You blush every time someone mentions the dream.”

“I do not.”

Noah points at my face.

“You are currently doing it.”

“I hate this family.”

Dad turns a page of the newspaper.

“No, you don’t.”

He’s right. I don’t. Hope’s gaze drops to my neck.

“Oh no.”

I freeze.

“What?”

“The whale necklace.”

“It’s an orca.”

“That’s exactly what whale people always say.”

I stare at her.

“Orcas are dolphins.”

Noah slowly looks up. Dad lowers the newspaper again. Mom closes her eyes like she already knows what’s coming. Hope blinks.

“What?”

“Orcas are dolphins,” I repeat. “The largest species of dolphin.”

Noah leans back in his chair.

“I regret asking for cereal and ending up in marine biology.”

“You didn’t ask. You stole.”

“I redistributed.”

Mom points the butter knife at him.

“No philosophical cereal theft.”

Dad sips his coffee.

“For the record, I knew they were dolphins.”

I look at him.

“You did?”

“No.”

Hope bursts out laughing. Despite everything, I laugh too. Real. Small. But real. The sound surprises me. Mom notices. Of course she does. Her face softens in that quiet way again. Then her eyes drift toward the Celtic knot necklace now hanging around my neck.

“You’re wearing Grandma’s knot today?”

I touch it instinctively. The memory of wind and rain on stone flickers through me again. Faint. Almost gone.

“Yeah.”

Mom smiles.

“She would have liked that.”

Dad leans back in his chair.

“She would have told you it looked better on her.”

Mom laughs.

“She would.”

Hope grins.

“Grandma sounds iconic.”

“She was,” Mom says. “She once argued with a castle historian for forty minutes because he got a clan story wrong.”

Noah looks genuinely impressed.

“Did she win?”

Dad folds the paper.

“Completely.”

Mom smiles down at her coffee.

“She always said Scotland was full of places that remembered you, even if you’d never been there before.”

Something inside me goes still.

Places that remembered you.

I look down at the Celtic knot. My thumb brushes over the silver lines. For the briefest second, I feel it again. Cold wind. Salt. Stone beneath my hand. Then nothing. I pull my hand away quickly.

“Faith?” Mom asks.

I blink up.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

I force a smile.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t look convinced. But she lets it go. The rest of breakfast continues in noise. Hope complains that Noah took too much orange juice. Noah argues that orange juice is not a personality trait. Dad announces he has no idea where his glasses are while they sit on top of his head. Mom tells him this without looking. And I sit there with both necklaces resting against my chest— the orca and the Celtic knot— trying to pretend that everything is ordinary. Trying to pretend I didn’t wake from a dream that felt older than my own life. Trying to pretend jewellery doesn’t carry memories. Trying to pretend a boy with no face doesn’t feel like home. But under the noise, under the laughter, under the clatter of plates and the smell of coffee and toast— the warmth in my chest pulses once. Soft. Steady. Waiting. And somehow, before the morning fully swallows the dream, a strange certainty settles deep inside me.

If I ever lost him— I would find him.

Or maybe he would find me. The thought makes no sense. And yet it feels older than reason. Older than memory. Older than fear.