Chapter 12
I started leaving pieces of myself behind.
I drew pictures for Dad and slipped them into his briefcase. Little crayon drawings of the two of us — holding hands, flying kites, sitting under a tree. I wrote "I love you Daddy" on every single one.
I made a card for Grandma Rose that said she was the best grandmother in the universe. I helped Grandpa Thomas in the garden every evening, learning the names of flowers I'd never see bloom again.
I told Sophie she was my best friend every single day until she said, "Lily, you're being weird." But she hugged me anyway.
...
On my eighth birthday, Dad threw me a party. There were balloons, a cake, and kids from school. It was the kind of birthday I'd never had in my first life.
I blew out the candles and made a wish: *Let Dad be happy after I'm gone.*
That night, Dad found me sitting on the porch, staring at the stars.
He sat beside me, his shoulder warm against mine. "What are you thinking about, birthday girl?"
"Daddy," I said, "if I wasn't here, would you be okay?"
He went still. Then he turned to face me, his expression serious. "Lily, why would you ask me that?"
"Just wondering."
Dad took my face in his hands. "Listen to me. You are the reason I'm alive. You are the reason I'm free. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. And you will always be here. Always."
I leaned into his hands and smiled. "Okay, Daddy."
But I could feel myself growing lighter. When Dad held me now, I thought his arms pressed through me just a little — like he was holding fog.
...
Three months after my birthday, I collapsed at school.
One moment I was in art class, painting a picture of a bird in flight. The next, my legs gave out and I was on the floor. Sophie screamed for the teacher.
At the hospital, doctors ran tests. They found nothing wrong — no illness, no injury, no explanation. But I was growing weaker.
"It's like she's just... fading," one doctor said to Dad in the hallway, confused and frustrated. "Her vitals are declining, but there's no medical cause."
Dad sat beside my bed, holding my hand, his face gray with terror.
"Lily, stay with me," he whispered. "Please. Stay with me."
I squeezed his hand and smiled. "I'm right here, Daddy."
But we both knew that wasn't quite true anymore.
...
Over the following weeks, I grew thinner, paler, more transparent. I stopped leaving the house. Dad took leave from work to stay with me.
He carried me to the garden so I could feel the sun. He read me stories. He sang the lullaby — the one about the bird flying home. The one I'd asked him about in the storage room, a lifetime ago.
One afternoon, with my head in his lap, I said, "Daddy? I need to tell you something."
He stroked my hair. "Anything, baby."
"I lived before. This life — it's my second one." I took a shaky breath. "In my first life, I betrayed you. You died because of me. And then I died too. And I was given a chance to come back and fix it."
Dad's hand stilled.
"I came back to save you. And I did." Tears slipped down my temples into my hair. "But I don't think I get to stay, Daddy. I think my time is almost up."
Dad was silent for a long time. Then he bent down and pressed his lips to my forehead.
"I don't care if this is your first life or your hundredth," he said, his voice breaking. "You are my daughter. And I am so proud of you."
I drew pictures for Dad and slipped them into his briefcase. Little crayon drawings of the two of us — holding hands, flying kites, sitting under a tree. I wrote "I love you Daddy" on every single one.
I made a card for Grandma Rose that said she was the best grandmother in the universe. I helped Grandpa Thomas in the garden every evening, learning the names of flowers I'd never see bloom again.
I told Sophie she was my best friend every single day until she said, "Lily, you're being weird." But she hugged me anyway.
...
On my eighth birthday, Dad threw me a party. There were balloons, a cake, and kids from school. It was the kind of birthday I'd never had in my first life.
I blew out the candles and made a wish: *Let Dad be happy after I'm gone.*
That night, Dad found me sitting on the porch, staring at the stars.
He sat beside me, his shoulder warm against mine. "What are you thinking about, birthday girl?"
"Daddy," I said, "if I wasn't here, would you be okay?"
He went still. Then he turned to face me, his expression serious. "Lily, why would you ask me that?"
"Just wondering."
Dad took my face in his hands. "Listen to me. You are the reason I'm alive. You are the reason I'm free. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. And you will always be here. Always."
I leaned into his hands and smiled. "Okay, Daddy."
But I could feel myself growing lighter. When Dad held me now, I thought his arms pressed through me just a little — like he was holding fog.
...
Three months after my birthday, I collapsed at school.
One moment I was in art class, painting a picture of a bird in flight. The next, my legs gave out and I was on the floor. Sophie screamed for the teacher.
At the hospital, doctors ran tests. They found nothing wrong — no illness, no injury, no explanation. But I was growing weaker.
"It's like she's just... fading," one doctor said to Dad in the hallway, confused and frustrated. "Her vitals are declining, but there's no medical cause."
Dad sat beside my bed, holding my hand, his face gray with terror.
"Lily, stay with me," he whispered. "Please. Stay with me."
I squeezed his hand and smiled. "I'm right here, Daddy."
But we both knew that wasn't quite true anymore.
...
Over the following weeks, I grew thinner, paler, more transparent. I stopped leaving the house. Dad took leave from work to stay with me.
He carried me to the garden so I could feel the sun. He read me stories. He sang the lullaby — the one about the bird flying home. The one I'd asked him about in the storage room, a lifetime ago.
One afternoon, with my head in his lap, I said, "Daddy? I need to tell you something."
He stroked my hair. "Anything, baby."
"I lived before. This life — it's my second one." I took a shaky breath. "In my first life, I betrayed you. You died because of me. And then I died too. And I was given a chance to come back and fix it."
Dad's hand stilled.
"I came back to save you. And I did." Tears slipped down my temples into my hair. "But I don't think I get to stay, Daddy. I think my time is almost up."
Dad was silent for a long time. Then he bent down and pressed his lips to my forehead.
"I don't care if this is your first life or your hundredth," he said, his voice breaking. "You are my daughter. And I am so proud of you."