Page 35 of Never Quite Gone

But he shook his head. “Some memories need to surface on their own. Pushing too hard too fast can do more harm than good.”

I wanted to argue, to demand answers to questions I was only beginning to form. But exhaustion pulled at me – physical and emotional, modern and ancient. My tea had gone cold while we talked, the kitchen clock ticking steadily toward dawn.

“This is insane,” I said finally, rubbing my temples. “You realize that, right? That this whole thing sounds completely insane.”

Alex's smile held gentle amusement. “More or less insane than the fact that you just remembered exact details about ancient Greek battlefield medicine that you've never studied?”

“That could be explained by... I don't know. Subconscious absorption of information. Maybe I read something somewhere and forgot about it.” Even to my own ears, the explanation sounded weak. “Or maybe this is all an elaborate prank. Maybe you've been researching me, finding ways to...”

“To what?” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding mine. “To break into your apartment at 3 AM to make you tea exactly the way you like it? To somehow implant memories of battles andtemples and healing techniques that aren't in any modern medical text?”

Put that way, it did sound ridiculous. But wasn't it more ridiculous to believe in past lives? In reincarnation? In the idea that Alex and I had known each other across centuries?

“You have to admit,” I said, studying my hands wrapped around the teacup, “this is a lot to take in. Past lives? Ancient memories? It's not exactly standard medical curriculum.”

“No,” he agreed easily. “But then again, neither is knowing exactly how to modify architectural plans without any training. Or recognizing Greek artifacts you've never seen before. Or feeling at home in temple galleries you've never visited.”

Each point hit uncomfortably close to truth. I'd been rationalizing away those strange moments of knowledge, those inexplicable feelings of familiarity. But now, with the battlefield memory still fresh in my mind...

“How do you know all this?” I asked, not sure I wanted the answer. “How do you know me?”

The question hung between us in the pre-dawn quiet. Outside, Manhattan slept while two men drank cooling tea and navigated impossible truths. The distance between us felt both infinite and nonexistent – Alex close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, but separated by death and time and Michael's ring heavy on my finger.

“You know how,” he said gently. “The same way you know about the herbs, about the temple, about everything else you're trying so hard not to remember.”

“No.” I pushed back from the counter, needing physical distance from the certainty in his voice. “No, reincarnation isn't real. It's a nice story people tell themselves to feel better about death, but it's not science. It's not possible.”

“Says the man who just remembered exact details of an ancient Greek battle he never fought in.” His smile held no mockery, only patience. “The surgeon whose hands know techniques that haven't been practiced in centuries.”

“That could be explained by... by genetic memory maybe. Or some kind of collective unconscious thing. Jung wrote about?—”

“Jung wrote about archetypes and shared symbols,” Alex interrupted softly. “Not about knowing exactly how to mix specific healing herbs, or recognizing people you've never met, or dreaming in languages you've never learned.”

I had been speaking ancient Greek in the dream - not just understanding it, but thinking in it, the words as natural as breathing. “There has to be another explanation,” I insisted, but my voice sounded weak even to my own ears.

“Does there?” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding mine. “Why? Because it doesn't fit your modern medical understanding? Because it can't be measured in a lab or proven in peer-reviewed studies?”

“Because people don't just get reborn!” I gripped my teacup so hard I was afraid it might break. “They don't just remember past lives over tea at 3 AM because some...” I gestured at him helplessly, “some developer breaks into their apartment and starts talking about ancient battles!”

“No,” he agreed calmly. “Most people don't. But we're not most people, are we? We never have been.”

The battlefield memory pressed against my mind. It felt more real than the kitchen around us, more true than anything except the operating room where my hands never shook.

“Why me?” I asked finally, my voice barely a whisper. “Why this? Why now?”

“Because it's time.” He reached across the counter but stopped short of touching me. “Because some souls are meant to find each other, no matter how many lives it takes. Because you're starting to remember anyway, whether you want to or not.”

The sky began to lighten outside my window, reality pressing in around our bubble of midnight truth. I should feel afraid, I realized distantly. Should question my sanity. Should throw this man out of my home and call security and pretend none of this was happening.

Instead, I found myself memorizing the way his hands moved as he gathered his jacket, comparing them to hands that had once wielded a sword in my defense. The same elegant strength, the same controlled power, the same tendency to reach for me before catching himself.

“I still don't believe this is real,” I said, but the protest sounded weak even to me.

“You do,” he replied gently. “Part of you does, anyway. The part that remembers. The part that knew me the moment you saw me in your ER.”

At my door, Alex paused. “The memories will keep coming,” he said softly. “Not because I'm forcing them, not because of any tricks or games. But because they're yours. They've always been yours.”

Then he was gone, leaving only two empty teacups and the lingering scent of honey and lemon to prove he was ever there. My hands shook as I cleaned up, my mind full of bronze and blood and questions I wasn't sure I wanted answered.

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