On a Wednesday, she rolled into class.
That bright green dress stood out like a beacon against the sea of uniforms. Your hair was pulled back neatly, and yet, it was the wheelchair that caught everyone’s eyes first—wheels glowing like tiny suns, braces hugging both your legs.
At that moment, I thought, She knows something I don’t.
At first, everyone was gentle with her—too gentle, as if she were made of glass. But not me. I spoke to her like any other person, curious. I asked, “Where are you from?”
With a knowing smile, she said, “You already know.”
I blinked. “I don’t.”
Then she called my name.
“Eleanor,” she said softly, but with certainty. “Do you remember me?”
My mouth parted in surprise. I searched my mind, but her face was unfamiliar. In all my years at school, I’d never seen anyone like her. Yet, her eyes held a silent promise—as if she was waiting for me to understand, to remember.
“Sorry, I don’t…” I faltered, feeling a pang of guilt.
She shrugged lightly. “That’s okay. It’s been a while. When we last met, you were very little.”
Before I could ask more, the teacher’s voice broke in, telling us to move on. But inside, a spark had ignited. This girl in the wheelchair, Violet, knew something I didn’t. And I was drawn to her.
Over the days, as others tiptoed around Violet, I treated her like anyone else. I pushed her wheelchair during lunch, helped carry her books, and even rolled her across the schoolyard on sunny days.
Her laugh was dry, but contagious. She saw the world through a lens that felt both wise and mysterious—like she held secrets most people missed, and she wasn’t afraid to speak them.
One afternoon, I stayed late to help her with math—her favorite challenge even though she usually outsmarted me.
Pointing at a complicated equation, I said, “Why does this even matter? Why bother?”
She smiled—a smile that wouldn’t quit—and asked, “You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?” I asked, uncertain.
Violet rocked back and forth in her chair, hands on the wheels. She sighed, “I used to be just like you. Not in this chair. But lost, confused… searching for answers I couldn’t find.”
I blinked. “I don’t get it.”
She whispered, “We were friends once. When we were younger. In another life.”
Everything inside me tightened. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes narrowed as if weighing whether to tell me more. “Not yet,” she said. “But you will, someday.”
Her words puzzled me. Violet was unique, always had been. But now she spoke in riddles—like she was holding back a story just out of reach. Sometimes, she looked at me as if she knew something I hadn’t yet realized.
Weeks passed, and Violet opened up in small ways. She told me about a life before this—full of energy, running wild with other kids. Until one afternoon…
She spoke barely above a whisper, “I was in an accident. The doctors couldn’t fix everything. My legs… they don’t work like before. But I found new ways to move forward.”
It was the first time she mentioned the crash. I didn’t ask for details. Some things you just don’t want to know.
I hesitated, “Before this… how could we have been friends?”
Violet’s face softened, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through. “You were my friend. I loved you. But something happened that made us forget.”
Before I could ask more, an idea struck me. “Are you saying we knew each other before this life?”
She nodded, eyes bright. “Yes. You helped me survive. I was meant to help you too. But we got separated.”
Her words spun in my head—unbelievable, yet strangely familiar.
One night, walking to the bus stop, I noticed a tiny mark on her wrist, barely visible beneath her sleeve. It was a symbol from a dream I’d had years ago—so vivid, it felt real.
“Where did you get that tattoo?” I asked, voice trembling.
Her smile grew, mysterious and knowing. “It’s the key to everything. It links us, before and now.”
The pieces clicked: the dream, the déjà vu, the feeling that something important had been left unsaid.
“I think I remember,” I whispered.
Violet’s eyes sparkled with joy. “You’re beginning to remember. Eleanor, this isn’t just about a wheelchair. We have a purpose—a mission. The world needs us. Don’t forget.”
Before I could ask what she meant, a man in a sharp suit appeared, stepping out of a car.
“Violet, it’s time. We’ve been searching for you,” he said firmly.
The playful girl I knew vanished. Her expression turned sharp, focused.
“This is where our paths part again,” she told me. “I waited my whole life for you to remember. Now, you must walk this path alone.”
“Where are you going?” I asked, desperate.
She smiled softly. “I’m not going anywhere. But you have what you need. When the time comes, you’ll know.”
The suited man turned to leave. Violet gave me one last look.
“Eleanor, you’re ready now. Believe in yourself. It’s never been just about me. You’ve always held the power.”
And then—she was gone.
In the days after, her words echoed in my mind. The mysterious message. The sudden arrival of the man. It all pointed to something bigger—something I’d never imagined.
But deep down, I knew she was right. Life’s twists, the dreams, the memories—they weren’t random. They were pieces of a puzzle I was finally ready to solve.
I wasn’t sure what lay ahead, but I was ready.
I was finally ready to move on.
If this story speaks to you, if you’ve ever felt there’s more to your life than meets the eye, share it. Sometimes, the greatest journeys start with a single unforgettable encounter.
