Chapter 2: Memories of the White House

In my previous life, from the moment I entered the White House, Rachel cherished me deeply.

He made paper airplanes for me to fly on the South Lawn, and when I was sick, he stayed by my bedside, caring for me without rest. Those long nights, his tie was always crooked by midnight, eyes rimmed red, but he'd still try to make me laugh with a Sinatra song from his phone.

Our life together was as close as any regular married couple. I still remember the early mornings, sharing coffee in the West Wing kitchen, the secret glances across the breakfast table before the world woke up.

Before I died, I held his hand and smiled contentedly. “Mr. President, in our next life, I want to meet you even before the First Lady does.” My voice was hoarse, but I managed a laugh, squeezing his fingers.

His eyes filled with tears as he embraced me tightly and promised, “Anna, in our next life, I’ll marry you as my wife.” His words trembled, more vow than comfort, and I pressed my cheek to his lapel, breathing in the scent of his cologne one last time.

After my death, I was buried with him in Arlington.

He gave me a love that was unique and undivided. Sometimes, I imagine his footsteps on the gravel paths, coming to sit with me among the stones and memories.

Looking back, my only regret was that I never gave him a child. The ache lingered, silent and heavy, through all those days and nights.