Sarah lay curled on the bed with her knees drawn close to her chest.
A few seconds earlier the front door of the block of flats had closed quietly behind Andy. Now she could hear his footsteps fading down the stairwell. A moment later the engine of his car started.
She listened until the sound disappeared.
He had left without saying goodbye.
Again.
The room still carried the faint warmth of his presence. For a moment she closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing.
Outside, the early March sky was still dark.
Sarah knew she would never see him again.
Not in this lifetime.
She rolled onto her side and pressed her face into the pillow, breathing slowly through the ache that had become so familiar it almost felt like a companion.
Why do I keep letting this happen?
The recognition had been instant the first time she laid eyes on him. It always was.
Sariel.
Even in this incarnation.
Sarah had incarnated once again into a bloodline connected to the ancient Elven race that first brought her into the third dimension as Anandariel. Through those bloodlines came seers, prophets, and mystics—generations carrying fragments of a memory older than humanity itself.
When she encountered one of those descendants, recognition stirred.
In women the memory surfaced more easily.
In men it often remained buried.
She had watched the pattern unfold across many lifetimes. Sariel would arrive bright with potential, only to drift slowly into the current that ran through certain bloodlines of Earth.
Ambition first.
Then control.
And finally the quiet dulling of empathy.
She rocked gently from side to side on the bed, trying to calm the familiar wave of grief rising in her chest.
“Why can’t you remember?” she whispered.
No answer came.
After witnessing several such lifetimes—seemingly accelerating as humanity approached the dawn of the Age of Aquarius—Sarah had finally made a decision.
If memory would not awaken in him, then she would dedicate herself to something else.
Record-keeping.
Witness.
Preservation.
Humanity now archived everything digitally. It was a strange echo of the Hall of Records—almost like the Draco had created their own parody of sacred memory.
A Veridict.
A hollow imitation of the truth.
Sarah reached for her phone and typed a short message.
Goodbye, Andy x
She set the phone aside.
Then she cried herself to sleep.
Andy tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Normally he enjoyed early morning drives. The motorway at that hour was quiet, almost peaceful.
Today something sat uneasily in his chest.
He glanced at the clock.
4:42 a.m.
“Brilliant decision,” he muttered.
He had come down to Yorkshire against his better judgement. He already knew the truth about this relationship.
A cul-de-sac.
A dead end.
Andy considered himself a practical man.
“And what’s wrong with that?” he said aloud to the empty car.
He ran his pale fingers through his thick auburn hair and exhaled.
Still…
Something about Sarah unsettled him.
The first time he stepped into her small council flat he had felt it immediately.
A strange sensation.
Almost as if he had crossed some invisible threshold.
For a brief second the room had seemed warmer than it should have been.
Not radiator heat.
Something else.
Something alive.
He blinked and the feeling vanished.
“Odd place,” he had said lightly.
Sarah had simply watched him with that intense gaze of hers.
Last night something similar had happened again.
She had taken his hand and pressed it against her heart.
“Andy,” she said softly. “There’s something we need to—”
He silenced her with a kiss.
Hard.
Hungry.
Anything to stop whatever words she was about to speak.
That was how he ended up staying most of the night.
Before leaving Glasgow he had told her he was coming down because he was worried about her.
That part was true.
After the last time they were together she had shaved her hair off.
“Bit extreme, don’t you think?” he muttered now.
A quieter voice inside him answered.
You know why she did it.
He ignored the thought.
Instead irritation rose again.
Why couldn’t Sarah just be normal?
Sure, she was kind enough. She always drew him a bath when he arrived after the long drive. She poured him a glass of wine and made him feel welcome.
But sooner or later the conversation always drifted somewhere strange.
“You remember,” she said once.
“Remember what?”
“Our work.”
He laughed aloud now at the memory.
“Our work.”
As if they had some grand cosmic mission.
His mission was simple.
Pay the bills.
Get on the property ladder.
Build a stable life.
Emma understood that perfectly.
Emma lived nearby. She offered comfort and stability. Emma didn’t ask awkward questions about past lives or spirit messages.
And, perhaps most importantly, Emma owned a house.
A very nice house.
Andy smiled faintly.
He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and felt the small ring box there.
Tonight he would ask her.
Problem solved.
His phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
He glanced down.
Goodbye, Andy x
He felt a flash of irritation.
“Bitch,” he muttered, flipping the phone face down.
Goodbye meant accountability.
He didn’t want that.
Yet the thought of never seeing Sarah again stirred something else beneath the anger.
Something he refused to examine.
Instead he summoned the memory of their last night together.
The intensity.
The triumph.
A private victory.
He didn’t need Sarah if he could keep that memory.
No questions.
No complications.
Just the feeling.
Sixteen years passed.
One afternoon Andy drove through the town where Sarah still lived.
Traffic slowed along the High Street.
And then he saw her.
Sarah stepped out of the Post Office, sunlight catching the curls of her hair.
He recognised her instantly.
Something inside him jolted.
For a moment the world seemed brighter.
Alive.
As if he had almost remembered something important.
That evening he sat at his computer and typed an email.
He kept it casual, apologising for leaving without saying goodbye.
She replied.
Her tone was friendly at first.
Then came the final line.
Are you ready to remember the dragons yet?
Andy leaned back in his chair.
“Dragons,” he said aloud. “Fucking dragons.”
He laughed and poured himself a large glass of wine.
“Well that answers that.”
What good were memories of ancient shapeshifting dragons when you had essays to mark and lesson plans to prepare?
Emma had stood by him when his business failed. She helped him retrain as a teacher. They had built a life together.
That was reality.
Still…
Something about Sarah lingered in his thoughts.
The way she looked at him.
The devotion he sensed beneath her calm surface.
A slow smile spread across his face.
He knew exactly what to say.
When Andy wrote that she had always been “the One,” Sarah felt her heart open again despite every warning she had given herself.
Hope.
Hope was always the most dangerous element.
Weeks passed as they exchanged messages.
Then one day she told him something deeply personal.
That the intimacy they shared had been the only time in this life she had felt truly soul-bonded.
His reply arrived quickly:
Thank you for sharing that with me.
Sarah stared at the screen.
The penny dropped.
Slowly.
He didn’t mean it.
Not really.
Later he called her “my Priestess,” and for a moment she almost believed him again.
Almost.
She gave a soft laugh and shook her head.
“Sixteen years,” she murmured.
Sixteen.
The Tower.
Lightning striking stone.
Illusion collapsing.
But she was no longer the woman she had been sixteen years earlier.
This time she gathered herself quickly.
Her task remained unchanged.
Memory.
Record.
Witness.
What happened between Sariel and Anandariel in this lifetime would be preserved.
In the digital archives.
And in the Akasha.
Future versions of themselves would find it.
She felt a brief pang of sorrow for Sariel.
This had not been one of his finest incarnations.
But even this life would serve the greater unfolding.
Earthly lifetimes were brief.
She attached the documents she had written and addressed the email to Andy.
For a moment she hesitated.
Then she pressed send.
“Let the Tower fall,” she whispered.
This chapter forms part of the living mythology behind the Dragon Twin Flame Oracle.
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