Chapter 1: The Weight of Memories

Caleb Morrison and I came back to life at the same time—reborn in the same small town, carrying memories no one else would ever believe.

The world felt raw and familiar all at once. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, the distant scent of fresh-cut grass drifting in, and the low hum of the neighbor’s mower setting the summer rhythm. There we were: two people with more history than anyone else could imagine, both blinking in the bright light of a new shot at life in Maple Heights, Ohio.

We’d been madly in love for an entire lifetime.

That kind of love—the old-fashioned, head-over-heels, ‘can’t breathe without you’ kind—doesn’t just fade away. Ours was the sort folks in Maple Heights still whisper about over pie at the diner—pecan or lemon meringue, depending on the season. We’d been young and reckless, sure, but we’d built a life together brick by brick. We planned futures, shared secrets, and laughed until our cheeks ached under the glow of porch lights. It was the sort of love that could make your heart soar and ache all at once.

But this time…

From the moment he graduated top of his class at Yale and shot up the ranks in Washington, I waited five whole years—yet he never came to my family to propose.

I’d watched the mailbox, every holiday, every long weekend. My heart would leap at the sound of his name in the local news, pride burning in my chest when folks at the Maple Heights Rotary Club talked about his meteoric rise. But he never showed up at my door. Not for Christmas, not for my birthday, not even for my dad’s annual Fourth of July cookout.

Only then did I get it.

The world kept spinning, the years slid by like rain on the window, and I finally understood what everyone else had tried to tell me. The ache settled into something cold and heavy inside my chest. I watched other girls move on, watched families grow and change, while I sat still, waiting for a knock that never came.

So that was it.

He wanted something else.

1

In my previous life, Caleb and I were that couple everyone in Maple Heights talked about.

You know the type—our names linked together like peanut butter and jelly, or salt and pepper. The local paper ran stories about us every anniversary. People said we’d been sweethearts since before the Reagan years. Our love made old women at church smile and teenagers roll their eyes.

Every morning, he’d brush my hair for me.

I’d sit on the old oak stool by our window, sunlight streaming in, and Caleb would gently untangle every strand. He’d hum classic rock tunes under his breath, his hands careful, his face a picture of concentration. It was our ritual, just the two of us, before the rest of the world crept in.

Whenever he came home, he’d bring me a sprig of dogwood from the park.

He’d slide through the back door with muddy shoes and that easy grin, the white petals tucked behind his ear. He said the dogwood was a symbol of strength and renewal—the same way he saw us. Sometimes he’d hand me a branch, sometimes just a single blossom. My heart would always skip a beat.

When winter hit, he’d warm my feet under the covers with his own hands.

He’d laugh at how cold my toes got, and I’d shriek when his hands found me. The wind might howl outside, snow piling up against the windows, but inside our little house, everything felt safe and warm.

By the time he became a deputy secretary at forty, there was still only me in our house.

We’d built a life—Sunday dinners, impromptu road trips, quiet nights with nothing but Netflix and microwave popcorn. Promotions came and went, but nothing changed between us. I was his home, and he was mine.

Even when the governor wanted to reward him with introductions to socialites and young aides, he turned them all down.

He’d come home with stories about the governor’s soirées—fancy women with diamonds, young up-and-comers with trust funds. But Caleb never wavered. “Why would I trade what I have?” he’d say, pulling me close. “They don’t know you like I do.”

Our trust and love never wavered—ten years felt like a single day.

The years ran together, birthdays and anniversaries blending into a single, golden stretch of time. We had our fights—who doesn’t?—but our love was as steady as the Ohio River, always finding its way home.

So, in this life…

When other men came to propose, no matter how wealthy or impressive, I turned them all away.

The Harrisons weren’t exactly the Rockefellers, but our name still meant something in Maple Heights. Suitors brought flowers, chocolates, even tickets to Broadway shows in Cleveland. But none of them made my heart flutter the way Caleb did.

I wanted to wait for Caleb.

I’d sit in my childhood bedroom, staring at my old yearbooks, tracing Caleb’s smiling face with my fingertip. My friends called me stubborn, but I couldn’t let go—not when I remembered how good we had it, how right it felt.

I told my dad I already had someone in my heart. By this time next year, after he finished law school, he’d come to propose.

Dad just stared at me over his mug of Folgers, shaking his head. “Natalie, you can’t build a future on wishful thinking,” he’d say, ruffling the sports section. But I stood my ground.

My dad called me naive—why turn down all these well-off guys for a broke kid from a small-town family?

He tried to reason with me, even brought up the Jones twins from down the block. “Look at Tommy Jones—he’s got his own plumbing business! Or that Ocampo boy—he’s a doctor now. But you’re hung up on Morrison? Honey, he’s got ambition, sure, but ambition doesn’t put food on the table.”

I said, “One day he’ll make it big—he’s got no limits.”

Dad sighed, a long, world-weary sound, but I stood firm. I could see it—Caleb standing at a podium, making a difference. If only Dad could see what I’d seen.

Even if Caleb was brilliant, could he really compete with the legacy of an old-money family?

Our family had been around since the Civil War—old photos lined the staircase, Harrison men in uniform, Harrison women in pearls. Dad worried about preserving all that, keeping up appearances at the country club.

Before my mom passed, she made my dad promise to always treat me well, or else she’d never forgive him.

I remember her voice, fragile but determined, as she squeezed his hand in the hospital room. It was the last thing she ever said to him, and it haunted him on the rough days.

So, though he was mad, my dad couldn’t bring himself to force me.

He’d rant and rave, but in the end, he’d just grumble, “Do what you want, Natalie.” I knew it was Mom’s memory holding him back. He might have been strict, but he never laid down the law when it really mattered.

And so, I refused every suitor.

The invitations kept coming—church socials, charity fundraisers, even a trip to Myrtle Beach. I turned them all down. My friends rolled their eyes, but I didn’t care. I was waiting for something bigger, something real.

Spring faded into fall. The moonlight on our street never changed. Year after year, I waited.

I’d watch the seasons spin by—the smell of fresh-cut grass, the taste of apple cider at Halloween, the crunch of snow under my boots. Yet the moon always seemed the same, casting silver over Maple Heights as if waiting, like me, for something that never came.

In the first year,

I remembered Caleb once telling me he’d been bullied by a local jerk.

There was always that one kid in every town—the kind who peaked in high school, who picked on anyone who dared to be different. Caleb had told me about the bruises, the way he’d bite back tears and pretend it didn’t hurt. Back then, I’d just held him. This time, I wanted to do more.

I thought, maybe the reason I got a second chance was to save the younger Caleb.

Maybe this was my shot to rewrite the script, to keep him from ever feeling alone. I imagined myself as his guardian angel, swooping in before the damage was done.

When I saw Caleb getting shoved around in the school parking lot, I immediately brought people to help.

I grabbed a couple of my friends—girls from the debate team and the marching band—and marched right over. The bully looked up, surprised, as we surrounded Caleb. "Hey," I said, voice steady, "why don’t you pick on someone your own size?" The crowd scattered, and the jerk slunk off, muttering.

Sixteen-year-old Caleb’s eyes flashed with surprise.

He looked at me like I was a ghost. His dark hair was a mess, his knuckles scraped, but he managed a grateful nod.

He thanked me, polite and distant: “Thank you, Natalie.”

His voice was formal, too grown-up for a kid his age. He sounded like he was reading from a script, like he didn’t quite know how to talk to me anymore.

I noticed the formality in his voice.

A chill crawled up my spine. We used to finish each other’s sentences. Now, he wouldn’t even meet my eye. My heart squeezed, but I swallowed it down. He didn’t remember—not yet.

A tightness bloomed behind my ribs, sharp and relentless, but I understood—in this life, we’d only just met.

I reminded myself: this wasn’t the Caleb who whispered secrets in the dark or sang along to John Mellencamp in the car. This was a new Caleb, one who saw me as just another classmate.

I talked Dad into sponsoring a scholarship at the high school—no one had to know it was for Caleb.

I convinced Dad to make a quiet donation, left envelopes stuffed with twenties behind his window screen. I’d watch from across the street, breath held, until I saw him take the cash and slip it into his backpack.

I left cash in an envelope on his windowsill, and only after seeing him take it did I feel at ease.

Sometimes I’d wait until midnight, shivering under the porch light. When Caleb finally found the money, relief would flood me. It felt sneaky, but it was all I could do.

In the second year,

Caleb graduated valedictorian and got into Yale on a full ride.

The town paper splashed his photo on the front page—"Local Boy Makes Good." Folks talked about him at the post office, pride and envy tangled together. I clipped the article and pressed it in my diary, right next to our old prom photo.

But he didn’t come to propose.

I kept waiting for that knock, for the ring tucked in his pocket, for the whispered promise of forever. But nothing came. The silence was deafening.

He’d just started in D.C.—maybe things were tough for him.

I told myself he was busy—settling in, finding his feet. I made excuses, clung to hope. Maybe next month, maybe next Christmas.

I begged my dad to help him out.

One night after dinner, I sat across from Dad, hands folded. “Please,” I said, “just help him get a foot in the door. He’s smart—he’ll make you proud.”

My dad reluctantly agreed and helped him land an internship.

He pulled a few strings, called up an old Army buddy who owed him a favor. Within a week, Caleb was set up with a coveted spot on the Hill—an opportunity most kids would kill for.

But Caleb seemed determined to avoid any hint of favoritism and kept his distance from my dad.

He barely sent a thank-you note. I’d see him at local events, but he’d always keep a polite distance, making small talk and then slipping away. He wouldn’t even look at me if he could help it.

I tried several times to arrange a casual meeting, but he was always busy, never giving me a chance to talk.

I’d text, call, even drop by his office with coffee, but he always had a meeting or was out to lunch. It was like chasing a shadow.

In the third year,

Caleb still didn’t show up.

He sent a postcard from Georgetown—one line about the cherry blossoms and nothing else. My friends got engaged, had babies, bought starter homes. I stayed frozen, waiting for a letter that never came.

I wondered if my coming back had changed everything.

Was it my fault? Did I mess up fate by interfering? The thought gnawed at me, kept me up at night.

It was all my fault.

I replayed every decision, every secret favor, wondering if I’d pushed him away by caring too much.

I became cautious, barely going out at all.

I withdrew from the world, skipping parties and girls’ nights, spending hours alone with my thoughts and a stack of old letters from our first life.

That year, I bottled up my longing, only daring to watch Caleb from afar.

I became a ghost in my own life, trailing Caleb’s news online, watching him give speeches on C-SPAN. I never reached out, afraid I’d scare him off for good.

In the fourth year,

Before I could wait any longer, my dad told me Caleb had taken a one-year post in Savannah.

He read it out loud from the local newspaper over breakfast—"Morrison Moves South for Big Break." I stared at the story, a strange feeling twisting in my chest.

He was now a rising star in the governor’s office, earning one accolade after another.

Every week there was a new headline—Caleb shaking hands with big shots, smiling for the cameras. My phone buzzed with texts from old friends: “Did you see this? He’s killing it!”

But those achievements, in my previous life, had never been his…

Back then, we’d stayed in Maple Heights. We’d built a life out of casseroles, Sunday service, and quiet ambition. This Caleb had become someone else—someone I barely recognized.

Listening to my dad, I suddenly realized—

Something inside me clicked. The pieces finally lined up: his formality, his distance, his sudden ambition. There was only one explanation.

Caleb had come back, too.

I nearly dropped my coffee mug. All this time, I’d thought I was the only one. But what if…?

But when did he remember?

I replayed every moment we’d shared in this life. Was there a clue I’d missed? A slip of the tongue, a knowing look?

I remembered: the year we first met, before I’d even told him my name, he called me “Natalie.”

It had startled me at the time—like he’d seen straight through the years and lifetimes, straight to my core.

So,

He’d already remembered then.

Dogwood petals drifted and fell on the sidewalk.

It was April. The wind carried the scent of rain and new beginnings, but all I felt was dread. The petals stuck to my sneakers as I paced the front walk, trying to make sense of it all.

A vague sense of dread crept into my chest.

What if Caleb’s memories were a curse, not a blessing? What if he’d come back determined to do everything differently?

Sure enough,

In the fifth year,

Caleb returned from Savannah.

He was the talk of the town, the golden boy come home. I watched from my bedroom window as he shook hands on the courthouse steps, a line of hopefuls trailing behind him.

But still, he didn’t come to propose.

He didn’t even send a text. I waited and waited, but the silence was final.

Instead, rumors spread that the governor wanted him to marry his youngest daughter.

The country club was buzzing. I overheard women in pastel cardigans whispering about the match—how Madison had set her sights on Caleb, how it was only a matter of time.

Outside,

Rain hammered the front porch. The world blurred behind the screen door.

I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, watched the water pool on the steps. Thunder rumbled in the distance, shaking the windows in their frames. It felt like the world was washing everything away.

Watching the rain, my heart sank.

I closed my eyes, letting the sound drown out my thoughts. I felt empty—like the rain had seeped inside and hollowed me out.

My past life’s love with Caleb felt like nothing but a fleeting dream.

Had I imagined it all? Had we really been that happy? It felt so distant now, like something out of a faded photograph.

I had waited five years.

Five years of missed chances and false hope. My hair was longer now, my laugh softer, my edges worn smooth by disappointment.

Waited until I was the last single woman my age on our block.

Every other girl I grew up with wore a ring or pushed a stroller. I was the one people whispered about at potlucks—"Poor Natalie, still waiting."

The men who once lined up at our door had dwindled to a few.

Once, there’d been so many—now, only the desperate or the strange bothered to ask. The sparkle in my father’s eye dimmed every time he saw me alone at the dinner table.

The ones left either wanted me as a second wife or came from families far beneath the Harrisons.

Dad would get red in the face just thinking about it. “You deserve better,” he’d grumble, pushing aside the junk mail wedding invites.

Our house, once filled with laughter, was now cold and quiet.

The halls echoed. The clocks ticked louder. Even the dog seemed to sigh more often.

My reputation was in shreds, and my dad endured endless whispers at the country club.

He still showed up every Saturday, chin high, but I knew the gossip stung. I caught the glances, the pitying smiles, the careful questions.

At this point, I finally understood—

The truth settled on me like dust: Caleb had made his choice, and it wasn’t me. Maybe, given another shot, he wanted a new story, a different ending.

Given another shot, Caleb wanted a different life.

I thought about all the things we’d shared—the promises, the dreams. Now, they felt like someone else’s memories.

And in this one, there was no place for me.

I finally let myself accept it, let the pain crash over me like a wave. It stung, but it was also a relief. No more waiting.

Let him have what he wants.

If his happiness meant being with someone else, I’d step aside. I owed him that, at least.

Staring at the rain-beaten dogwood branches, I called my maid and quietly said, “Tell Dad, I’m willing to marry.”

The words were heavy on my tongue, but once spoken, they felt final. I watched the rain and tried to picture a different life—a life without Caleb.

As soon as I said it, as my maid gasped in shock, my vision went black and I fainted.

Her hands caught me as I crumpled, the room spinning. The last thing I heard was her frantic voice calling my name.

As everything faded, I thought—

The memories, once sharp and bright, grew dim around the edges. Maybe that was for the best.

Whatever Caleb and I had ends here, in this life.

No more waiting. No more hoping. The past was a closed door, and I finally let myself turn away.

From now on, we’re done.

A weight lifted. For the first time in years, I felt something like peace, even as the darkness swallowed me whole.