Chapter Five: The Reckoning

Bills lay scattered across the table like fallen leaves. Electric, water, rent, hospital. Elias sat in the dim glow of the kitchen light, staring at them as if they might rearrange themselves into something less threatening. The envelopes overlapped in careless piles, payment deadlines stamped in red. Each one was a reminder of the cost of Clara’s illness, of the treatments that had given him hope before stripping it away.

He rubbed his temples. The weight of numbers pressed heavier than the grief. His bank account had been bleeding since Clara first got sick, and though she was gone, the debts remained. A cruel echo.

On the counter sat the card Feldman had given him. He’d placed it there when he came home from the café, telling himself he’d think about it later. But later had stretched into days, and now it was Wednesday night, and the decision pressed in like the walls themselves were closing.

He picked up the card again, turning it between his fingers. The name—Dr. Naomi Han—looked harmless enough. Just ink on cardstock. No explanation, no title, just a phone number. Feldman had said she could help him, that she was the one person who might be able to make sense of the dreams.

He pulled out his phone and dialed. It rang several times before a calm, automated voice answered, instructing him to leave a message and stating that she would call him back.

He ended the call. The silence in the apartment felt heavier. Boston wasn’t enough. If he wanted answers, he’d have to go to New York. He couldn't wait, couldn't risk another week of these dreams.

Elias pushed back from the table and stood. His legs ached from long hours at work, but the restlessness went deeper. He walked to the window. Outside, Boston shimmered in late-autumn chill, streetlights haloed in mist. He pressed his forehead to the glass.

“How am I supposed to do this?” he muttered.

He couldn’t ask for more time off work. He’d already leaned on their sympathy after Clara’s death. One more absence and the quiet patience in his manager’s eyes might harden into suspicion. The only option was the weekend. Leave Friday evening, return Sunday.

He glanced back at the table. Bills glared at him from their envelopes. Plane tickets weren’t cheap. He’d be stealing from money already owed.

The rational choice was clear: stay, save, let the idea of reincarnation fade into nonsense. But rationality had been crumbling ever since the dreams began to repeat, ever since Clara’s voice in his memory had blurred while the dream woman’s scream burned brighter.

Elias grabbed his laptop, sat down again, and opened the airline website. His fingers hovered over the keys.

“Weekend,” he said under his breath. “Friday night. Back Sunday.”

The numbers on the screen stabbed at him, but he clicked through anyway. When the confirmation page appeared, he leaned back, exhaling as if he’d crossed a line he could never uncross.

The flight was booked.

On Friday, his carefully calculated plan unraveled. He’d left with what he thought was plenty of time, but a multi-car accident on the highway brought traffic to a complete standstill. He sat, trapped in a sea of idling cars, watching the minutes on the dashboard clock tick past with a kind of detached horror. The gap between him and his flight narrowed from comfortable, to tight, to nearly impossible. When the lanes finally inched forward, he broke every speed limit on the access road to Logan, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He abandoned his car in the closest spot he could find, not caring about the cost, and ran.

He was a ghost weaving through the crowded terminal, bypassing queues with a muttered apology, his passport held out like a talisman. He reached the gate as they were about to close the jet bridge door. The sigh of relief he let out as he stepped onto the plane was less about making the flight and more about the universe finally, for once, not taking something else away from him.

The flight was a numb, humming limbo. Pressed against the cool window, he watched Boston shrink into a constellation of insignificant lights, then vanish beneath a blanket of cloud. In the dark, silent cabin, there was nothing to do but feel the distance grow, a chasm opening between the man he had been and the one he was hurtling toward.

The jolt of the landing gear hitting tarmac startled him back into the present. Minutes later, he was swept up in the river of disembarking passengers, and the airport swallowed him whole. It smelled of fuel and fried food. Announcements reverberated through the vast terminal, distorted by the cavernous space. Travelers bustled past Elias with rolling suitcases, voices rising and falling in a hundred different languages. The unrelenting white light from the long ceiling panels cast everything in a sterile and endless glare.

He had texted the number Feldman had given him as soon as the plane touched down. The reply had been quick, efficient: I’ll pick you up. Wait by arrivals. No pleasantries. No hesitation.

Now he stood at the edge of the crowd, watching families reunite, business travelers stride briskly toward waiting cars, college students laughing too loudly. His own nerves hummed louder than the rolling wheels and overhead announcements.

He told himself he should feel relief, having finally arrived, but instead he felt suspended, as if the ground beneath him wasn’t entirely real.

He checked his phone again. No new messages.

His eyes, scanning the crowd for someone who might be looking for him, caught on a woman standing apart. She wasn't watching the stream of arrivals, but studying the people waiting, her gaze sharp and assessing. For a moment, their eyes met. There was no smile of greeting, only a quiet, unwavering focus. She moved toward him with an air of certainty that left no doubt.

This was her.

As she came closer, the details resolved. She was younger than he’d expected. Her hair was short and dark, grown just long enough to brush the tops of her ears and fall in soft, deliberate layers that framed her angular cheekbones. She wore a black jacket that looked both practical and effortlessly stylish, and jeans tucked into boots. She could have been a graduate student, not the specialist Feldman had promised.

Elias hesitated, the absurdity of the whole situation crashing down for a second, then stepped forward. Her gaze locked onto him before he even spoke.

“Elias Shirazi,” she said, her voice low but clear.

He nodded. “Dr. Han?”

“Yes. Naomi.” A cold prickle ran down his neck as her eyes lingered on him longer than comfort allowed, a strange intensity in her stare.

Elias shifted uneasily. “You’re… younger than I expected.”

A small smile touched her lips, almost mocking. “I’m older than I look.”

Something in the way she said it made his stomach turn. He wanted to ask how much older, but the words caught in his throat.

Instead, he said, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“You called. I came.” Her gaze swept over him again, sharper this time, as if she were reading something beneath his skin. For a brief second, her expression flickered—surprise, maybe even unease. Then it was gone.

Elias frowned. “What is it?”

Naomi tilted her head, studying him. “Nothing. Only… your aura is different.”

He almost laughed. “My aura?”

“Yes.” She didn’t smile. “Your aura… it’s barely there. Like a shadow behind glass. But there’s something strange about it. I can’t name it. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before.”

Elias blinked, unsettled. He wanted to dismiss it as mysticism, but her tone carried the weight of certainty.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I can tell you this much: you’ve been reincarnated. I can see it. The signs are there. If you want the truth about your dreams, I can help you find it.”

Elias’s mouth went dry. “And if I don’t?”

Naomi’s expression softened slightly. “Then you’ll keep dreaming. Keep losing her. Again and again. Until you can’t tell which life is yours anymore.”

The noise of the airport seemed to dim, her words filling the space. Elias clenched his jaw. He hated the pull of her certainty, hated how much he wanted to believe.

He glanced toward the exit. Boston felt far away already, his apartment with its unpaid bills and silence belonging to another man’s life. He thought of Clara, of the weight of her absence, of the dreams that refused to leave him alone.

He had come this far. What was another day? Another step?

“Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll come with you.”

Naomi gave a small nod, as if she had expected no other answer. “Good.”

They walked together through the sliding glass doors, out into the sharp chill of New York night. The city stretched before them, alive with noise and light. Neon signs blinked against the dark, taxis honked as they jostled through traffic, street vendors shouted over the music spilling from open bars. The air carried the tang of exhaust and roasted nuts from a nearby cart.

Elias felt dwarfed by it all. Boston seemed quiet by comparison, tamed. New York pulsed with a relentless heartbeat, a city that never allowed silence. A yellow cab pulled up. Naomi opened the door and gestured for him to slide in first. He hesitated, the weight of decision pressing on him again.

Inside, the cab smelled faintly of leather and gasoline. Elias sank into the seat, clutching his duffel bag against his knees. Naomi slid in beside him and gave the driver an address he didn’t catch.

The cab lurched forward, merging into the chaos of traffic. Skyscrapers loomed above, windows blazing like stars.

Elias stared out at the blur of lights, his reflection faint against the glass. Doubt coiled in his stomach. Had he been foolish to come? To trust a stranger who looked barely older than the interns at his firm?

Yet beneath the doubt, something else stirred—fragile, persistent. Hope. The hope that maybe, just maybe, this journey would lead to answers. To meaning. To the truth about why his nights were filled with fire and loss.

The cab carried him deeper into the city. Uncertainty gnawed at him, but he didn’t turn back.

The stairwell creaked with every step. Elias followed Naomi upward, the duffel bag slung heavy on his shoulder, his pulse quickening as the air grew warmer and heavier with the scent of oil, dust, and the faint tang of soldered metal.

“This way,” Naomi said, her voice low, almost cautious. She pushed open a door with peeling paint, and as they stepped through, the late autumn bite of New York quickly gave way to a welcoming warmth within.

The apartment beyond was wide and cavernous, more like a studio loft than a home. Brick walls stretched high, some stained with age, others marked by graffiti half-scrubbed away. Wires ran haphazardly across the ceiling, feeding into lamps that cast pools of ochre light. A long table stood in the center, cluttered with laptops, cables, half-empty mugs, and a scattering of maps pinned with colored markers. Against one wall, stacks of crates and duffel bags gave the place the look of a warehouse.

It wasn’t a home. It was a staging ground.

Five people turned as Naomi led Elias in. Their conversations cut off mid-sentence, replaced by curious stares.

Naomi gestured toward them, her tone clipped. “This is the team.”

She introduced them one by one, giving only their names.

The first was Reina. Her hair fell in messy waves dyed a sharp platinum blonde, streaked with darker roots. She wore a leather jacket over a faded band tee, ripped jeans, and boots scuffed with wear. Metal rings glinted on her fingers as she raised one hand in a lazy wave. Her gaze flicked over Elias with disinterest, like she had already scanned and dismissed him.

Beside her stood Marcus, tall and broad-shouldered, his frame filling the space. His dark skin gleamed under the lamplight, sweat catching at his temples from whatever work he’d been doing. His shirt stretched across thick arms, tattoos peeking from beneath the sleeves. He gave Elias a brief nod, serious and guarded.

A step away, leaning against the table, was Julian. Brunette, wiry, with restless eyes that shifted constantly. His hands toyed with a lockpick he spun between his fingers as though it were an extension of himself. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Near the crates, Elias spotted Valerie. She was a Latina woman with short, dark hair cropped at her jaw and wore a bomber jacket, her posture relaxed but ready. She met Elias’s gaze directly, her expression calm, steady, as if measuring him.

And finally, near the far wall stood a man who looked older than the rest. His beard was streaked with gray, his shoulders still broad beneath his coat. Samuel, Naomi called him. His presence filled the room—not through movement, but through stillness. He didn’t smile, didn’t frown, only studied Elias with eyes that seemed to carry both patience and judgment.

Elias shifted under their scrutiny, aware of his outsider status.

Naomi broke the silence. “He’s tired. I’ll show him to a room.”

Samuel gave a curt nod, turning back to whatever papers lay on the table. The others followed suit, returning to their tasks with varying levels of interest.

Naomi led Elias through a narrow hallway into a smaller space. The room was bare, the brick walls left exposed, the floorboards scarred and uneven. A thin mattress lay directly on the floor, a folded blanket at its foot. Two wooden chairs sat opposite one another, scratched and worn, their paint long stripped. A single lamp on the floor cast a dim glow, leaving the corners in shadow.

“This is it,” Naomi said simply.

Elias stepped inside, his senses alert. He scanned the walls, the floor, the window that overlooked an alley choked with fire escapes. No personal touches. No warmth. Just utility.

“Not much here,” he muttered.

“It’s enough,” Naomi replied. She gestured to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

Elias hesitated, the warmth of the room making him immediately shed his coat. He folded it over his duffel bag, which he then set down, before lowering himself into the chair. Naomi sat across from him, crossing one leg over the other, her posture relaxed but deliberate.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“No,” Elias said quickly. His stomach was too tight for food.

“Then let’s talk.”

Her eyes fixed on him, steady, unblinking. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Elias shifted, uncomfortable under her gaze. “Because Feldman thinks I’m… different. Because of the dreams.”

Naomi nodded. “Yes. You are one of the few. Most souls find their rest after death. But a handful are sent back, carrying fragments of what they were. A rare few of those begin to remember, and that is the call to their purpose: to preserve knowledge, and to protect humanity from threats it can't see.”

Elias frowned. “Purpose? That sounds like…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It sounds like a story. A myth.”

“Many truths hide inside myths,” Naomi said calmly.

Elias leaned forward. “And you? Are you one of them too?”

Her expression didn’t change. “No.”

“Then what are you?”

Naomi’s voice lowered. “I am the daughter of one.”

The words hung between them. Elias searched her face, but found no cracks, no hesitation.

​“One of your parents was reincarnated?”

“Yes.”

Elias’s frustration flared. “So you’re saying you know all this because of your family? That’s your proof?”

“No,” Naomi said firmly. “I know because I can see you. Your aura. It’s faint, blurred. But it’s there. Not everyone has that.”

Elias’s stomach knotted. “Aura,” he echoed.

“Yes.”

“How can you see it?”

Her eyes flickered. “I’m not allowed to say more. Not until you meet the Elder.”

“The Elder?”

She didn’t elaborate. “You will understand in time.”

Elias shook his head. “In time? I don’t have time. I’m only here for the weekend—I can’t stay longer than that.”

Naomi’s expression stayed calm, almost unmoved. “Then be patient for one more night. Tomorrow we will speak of it again. Some answers can’t be forced.”

Elias leaned back, shaking his head. “You keep asking me to believe without giving me answers. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Naomi studied him for a long moment. Then she asked, softly, “Tell me about your dreams.”

He hesitated, then spoke. He told her of the fire, of the woman, of the arrow piercing her chest. Of the helplessness, the scream torn from his throat. He told her the feeling was torture; re-living the loss of someone too dear, a cycle with no end.

When he finished, Naomi’s eyes softened. “These are not dreams. They are memories. Fragments of your past lives. And now your soul is trying to remember something specific. That is why you see her every night. She is important.”

Elias’s voice broke. “I can’t even remember her name. After all these nights, I wake up and it’s gone.”

Naomi leaned forward. “Names fade. Feelings don’t. The bond is what matters.”

A knock sounded at the door. Naomi rose, opened it. Reina, the blonde, stood there holding a cup. Her rings caught the light as she handed it over without a word. Naomi thanked her quietly, closed the door, and returned to Elias.

She held out the cup. Steam curled upward, carrying an earthy, bitter scent.

“Drink,” she said.

Elias eyed it warily. “What is it?”

“A mix of herbs. It will help you with your dreams.”

“How?”

Naomi’s gaze was steady. “Drink, and you will understand. It isn’t poison. I wouldn’t bring you here to kill you.”

Elias stared at the cup, the steam blurring his vision. His instincts screamed caution, but something else—desperation, perhaps—pushed against it. Slowly, he took the cup. The liquid was hot, bitter, clinging to his tongue. He grimaced, swallowing quickly.

Naomi took the cup back, her expression unreadable. “Rest now. We are outside if you need anything.”

Elias lowered himself onto the thin mattress. His body resisted, tense with unease, but exhaustion pulled harder. His head buzzed with questions, with doubts. Was he a fool for trusting them? For trusting her?

Yet even as his mind spun, the fog thickened. His thoughts slowed, stilled. Clarity pierced for an instant, sharp and strange—and then darkness washed over him.

Elias drifted into sleep.