It was a Wednesday when she rolled into class.
That bright green dress, so out of place among our muted tones, her hair neatly pulled back, her school uniform pristine—everything about her stood out. She arrived in a wheelchair with wheels that gleamed like little suns, braces wrapped around both legs.
I remember thinking, She knows something I don’t.
Everyone was gentle with her at first. Too gentle, like she was fragile—glass-like. But not me. I treated her like I would anyone else. I asked her where she came from.
“You already know,” she said with a smile.
I blinked. “I don’t,” I replied.
Then she said my name.
She said it again—“Eleanor”—her voice soft, yet unwavering. “Do you remember me?”
My lips parted slightly as I stared at her, trying to place her face, but I couldn’t. In all the years I had attended that school, I had never met anyone like her. And yet, there was something in her eyes that told me she was waiting for me to recall something—anything.
“I’m sorry, I…” My voice trailed off. I felt a twinge of guilt, but she didn’t seem bothered.
She gave a small shrug. “That’s alright. I get it. It’s been a long time. You were really young the last time we saw each other.”
I was thrown. I wanted to ask more, but the teacher called us to order. Still, something about her lingered—this girl in the wheelchair, Violet—she knew something. And I couldn’t shake the feeling.
Over the following days, I found myself drawn to her. Her name was Violet. While others continued to treat her delicately, she didn’t expect that from me—and that brought me comfort. Slowly, a friendship began to form. I’d help her roll to lunch, carry her books. On sunny days, I’d push her across the school yard.
Her laugh was dry and sharp—it made me laugh too. She had a way of looking at the world like she understood something hidden beneath the surface. She didn’t hesitate to say what others wouldn’t.
One afternoon, I stayed behind to help her with homework. She always said she needed help with math, though truthfully, she was often ahead of me.
I pointed at a tricky problem. “I don’t get this,” I muttered. “What’s the point? Why does this even matter?”
Violet smiled, unshaken. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, still bewildered.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she rocked her chair back and forth, her hands resting on the wheels. She sighed, then said, “I used to be like you. Not in the physical sense. But I lived in a world full of questions and no answers. I felt lost too.”
“I still don’t understand,” I said.
“We were friends, once,” she said gently. “A long time ago. Another life, maybe. Something happened—something big. It changed us. It changed everything.”
I looked at her, stunned. “Are you saying…?”
She hesitated, eyes narrowing as if weighing whether to continue. Finally, she said, “I shouldn’t tell you yet. Not now. But one day, you’ll know.”
Her words were strange, and I didn’t know what to make of them. Violet had always been different, but this—this felt like she was speaking in riddles. Yet every time she smiled or gave me that knowing look, I felt like some part of me recognized her.
In the weeks that followed, she opened up more, but only little by little. She told me bits about her life before arriving at our school. She’d been strong, energetic, constantly on the move. She and other kids would run wild together. But then, everything changed.
“I was in an accident,” she whispered one afternoon. “The doctors couldn’t fix everything. My legs just… don’t work the same anymore. But it’s okay. I learned new ways to live, new ways to move forward.”
It was the first time she mentioned the truck crash. I had never asked because, deep down, I didn’t want to know.
“What do you mean, before?” I asked softly. “How could we have been friends?”
Her face softened. For the first time, I saw a flicker of vulnerability. “You were my friend. Someone I loved deeply. But something made us forget.”
I was about to question her when a thought struck me. “Are you saying we knew each other before… this life?”
She nodded. “Yes. You helped me survive. We were meant to support each other. But we got separated.”
It sounded ridiculous, and yet… the way she spoke, the way we connected—it all felt oddly familiar. As if her presence woke something in me I hadn’t known was sleeping.
The turning point came one evening as we walked to the bus stop. I noticed a faint symbol on her wrist, partially hidden under her sleeve. A tiny, delicate mark I’d seen before—in a dream I’d had years ago. A dream that had always felt more like a memory.
“Where did you get that tattoo?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Violet glanced at it, then at me. Her smile deepened. “That’s the key. It’s always been the key. There’s a connection between us, Eleanor—one that existed before we met again.”
The realization hit me like a wave. The dream. The déjà vu. The feeling that something long forgotten was surfacing.
“I think I remember,” I whispered. “I think I remember you.”
Violet’s eyes lit up with joy. “You’re beginning to remember. I knew you would. And it’s not just about me, Eleanor. It’s about what we were meant to do—together. We have a purpose. The world needs us. Don’t forget again.”
Just as I was about to ask her what that purpose was, something strange happened.
A sleek car pulled up, and a man stepped out. He was tall, dressed in a suit, and carried an air of authority. His voice was firm: “Violet, it’s time. We’ve been looking for you.”
Violet’s expression changed instantly. Gone was the lightness. She looked sharp, resolved.
She turned to me. “Our paths divide here. I waited my whole life for you to remember—so you could begin what we were meant to finish. But you have to continue on your own now.”
“What do you mean?” I pleaded. “Where are you going?”
She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere. But I’ve given you what you need to find your path. When it’s time, you’ll know.”
The man turned to leave, but Violet paused and looked at me one last time. “Eleanor, you’re ready now. Trust yourself. This journey was never just about me—it was about you. The power has always been within you.”
And just like that, she was gone.
In the days that followed, her words echoed in my mind. Everything she said—the mysterious conversation, the sudden appearance of the man—it all pointed to something larger than I’d ever imagined.
Yet, in my heart, I knew she was right. I had the power to shape my life. The dreams, the symbols, the forgotten memories—they weren’t random. They were fragments of a greater truth, a puzzle I was meant to piece together.
I didn’t know exactly what lay ahead. But I was no longer afraid. I was finally ready to move forward.
Share this story if it speaks to something inside you—if you’ve ever felt like there’s more to your life than what the eye can see.