Rising From Ashes: My Reincarnated Love

Cora pressed her spine against the freezing tiles of the hallway. Her chest heaved with every ragged breath.

The window at the end of the hall was cracked open. A cold night breeze blew in, chilling the sweat on her skin.

She couldn't stay in that cramped hallway. She needed to get outside. She needed to clear the suffocating nightmare from her brain.

Cora grabbed an oversized, black knit cardigan from the hook by her door. She wrapped it tightly around herself and walked down the stairs to the building's ground-floor courtyard.

The courtyard was empty. Only a few dim floor lamps illuminated the wet cobblestones. The air smelled strongly of rain and wet earth.

She sat down on a damp wooden bench. She buried her face in her hands, pressing her palms against her eyes to block out the lingering image of Isolde.

Then, she heard it.

The slow, heavy, rhythmic sound of expensive leather shoes stepping onto the wet stone.

Cora's head snapped up. She stared toward the dark archway at the edge of the courtyard.

A tall man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing a perfectly tailored black trench coat.

He had his head bowed. In his right hand, he was rolling a heavy, tarnished silver coin-an ancient Roman denarius-across his knuckles. The dull, rhythmic clink of the dense metal hitting his rings was sharp in the quiet night. He suddenly paused, shifting his weight to pull a slim flashlight from his coat pocket. He clicked it on, angling the beam down toward a map in his other hand. The harsh backscatter of the light perfectly illuminated his sharp, ruthless jawline and his cold, striking profile.

Cora's pupils dilated. It felt like a sledgehammer slammed directly into her sternum.

That face. It was the exact same face that haunted the edges of her nightmares. It was the face of the man her soul remembered. Alistair.

She gasped out loud. Her entire body went completely rigid on the bench.

The man heard the sound. His head snapped toward her. His eyes, sharp and predatory, pierced through the darkness straight at the bench.

His gaze locked onto her silhouette. His dark eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown.

Panic exploded in Cora's veins. She realized the courtyard light was hitting the right side of her face.

She violently yanked the collar of her cardigan up over her cheek.

Like a terrified rabbit, she bolted up from the bench. She scrambled away, keeping her head ducked, desperate to escape his line of sight.

The man didn't speak. He just stood there, watching her with a heavy, oppressive intensity that made her skin prickle.

Cora ran past him, giving him a wide berth.

As she brushed past his space, the wind shifted. A sharp, icy scent of cedarwood mixed with rich tobacco hit her nose.

The smell was a physical blow. It wasn't just a fragrance; it was the exact scent of Alistair's private study. A phantom memory crashed over her-the warmth of a crackling hearth, the scratch of his fountain pen on parchment, and the feeling of falling asleep against his shoulder while he worked late into the night. That buried, stolen warmth now felt like a knife twisting in her chest. Her eyes instantly burned with tears. A century of unspoken grief threatened to rip out of her throat.

Cora ran. She sprinted back into the building, flew up the three flights of stairs, and slammed her apartment door shut. She threw the deadbolt.

She slid down the wooden door until she hit the floor. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, her body shaking uncontrollably.

She didn't sleep a wink. She sat on the floor until the sun came up.

At 7:00 AM, loud, rapid knocking rattled her door.

"Cora!" Lena yelled from the hallway. "The bus leaves in thirty minutes! Hurry up!"

Cora took a deep, shaky breath. She stood up. She walked to the bathroom and splashed freezing water on her swollen eyes.

She meticulously brushed her hair over her scar. She hoisted her heavy canvas duffel bag onto her shoulder.

Cora opened the door and followed Lena out to the charter bus waiting on the street.