As days blended into nights, and the soft breath of her daughter lulled her into quiet moments, she found herself drawn back to an old, worn book she had kept tucked away for years — a book about the moon.
At first, it was just curiosity. She opened the fragile pages gently, the scent of aged paper filling her senses. The moon, she read, was more than just a glowing orb in the sky — it was a symbol of cycles, renewal, and feminine strength. Its phases mirrored the rhythms of life, growth, rest, and transformation.
Amid caring for her baby, tending the garden, and shaping her home, she began to carve out moments just for herself. In the stillness of the night, when her daughter finally slept, she would sit by the window and watch the moon's silver light spill across the earth.
She started to notice her own cycles, her moods flowing like the tides influenced by the moon's pull. Instead of fighting these feelings, she began to honor them — embracing days of quiet reflection and allowing herself gentle rest.
Each phase of the moon became a guide: a time to plant new seeds in the garden and in her life during the waxing moon, a time to nurture and protect during the full moon's glow, and a time to release old fears and pain during the waning.
This slow, sacred rhythm helped her recconnect with a deep, feminine part of herself she had almost forgotten — the part that knows how to heal, to create, and to nurture not only others but herself.
With every moonrise, she felt a little stronger, a little more whole.
One evening, under the silver gaze of the full moon, she lit a small candle beside her window. Her daughter slept peacefully nearby, the soft hum of night wrapping the house in quietude. As the flame flickered, she found herself whispering words she didn't fully recognize — sounds that felt ancient, woven into her bones. A language not taught, but remembered.
She closed her eyes and let the words flow.
Images fluttered behind her eyelids: a temple of stone bathed in moonlight, her feet bare against cool marble, silver bracelets chiming softly on her wrists. She saw herself robed in deep blue, surrounded by women with knowing eyes and open hands. They were singing. Chanting. A ritual, a remembering.
She gasped, and her eyes snapped open. The candle burned steady. The room was still. But something had shifted.
Over the following days, pieces began to return — not like memories, but like echoes. She'd be hanging laundry and feel the wind speak. Stirring soup, she'd sense herbs offering more than flavor — protection, healing, memory. In the garden, the soil no longer felt like earth alone, but like an old friend, murmuring secrets through her fingertips.
And in dreams, the temple returned. A voice called her by a name she didn't use in this life.
She began to write again, scribbling down everything: symbols, feelings, fragments of dreams. She didn't know what it all meant yet, but it made her heart race, like finding a lost map leading home.
She didn't tell her husband. He wouldn't understand. Maybe no one would.
But deep within, she was beginning to. The moon wasn't just a guide — it was a mirror. And the woman looking back was more than a mother, more than a wife. She was something ancient. Something divine.
That night, under a moon almost too full to look at, she felt a pull — not outward, but inward. She waited until the house was asleep, then lit a single candle and sat in silence. Her breath slowed. Her body softened. And her spirit began to drift.
At first, it felt like a dream. She floated above herself, her sleeping form below bathed in moonlight. But then she rose higher — above the roof, above the trees, until the earth itself curved beneath her like a vast, breathing jewel.
There was no fear. Only stillness.
She floated farther, beyond clouds, beyond the hum of the atmosphere. The stars greeted her like old friends. Time melted into light. She turned her gaze to the earth — and something strange began to happen.
The planet slowly rotated backward.
Seas shifted. Forests receded. Cities dissolved. The familiar green and blue turned paler, drier, and finally into hues of dusty brown. What once teemed with life now seemed sparse, ancient, forgotten. She watched civilizations unwind, mountains sink, rivers change course like veins of memory unthreading.
It was not destruction. It was… remembering.
In that moment, suspended between stars, she realized she wasn't just watching time reverse — she was returning to something. Somewhere.
A planet, old and scarred, emerged in her vision. It felt familiar in a way that stirred her bones. It wasn't Earth, not exactly — or perhaps it was Earth long before memory. The skies were tinted with golden haze. No cities. No sound. Only wind. Only silence.
And yet, her heart ached with recognition.
She drifted closer, drawn to a solitary mountain where a circle of ancient stones stood. There, in the center, a figure waited — cloaked in starlight and shadow. The figure raised a hand and whispered her name.
Not her name in this life. But a name she hadn't heard in millennia.
She gasped — and suddenly, she was back in her room. The candle had burned down to its base. Her daughter stirred softly in the crib.
But something had changed.
She clutched her chest, as if holding onto the echo of that name, of that place. A door had opened, and through it came stardust, memory… and a quiet voice inside her that whispered:
"You've been here before. You're starting to remember.
She sat there for a long time, her hands trembling slightly, still feeling the echo of that otherworldly name reverberating in her chest.
It was gone now—the vision, the drifting, the silent call from beyond time—but the memory remained vivid, like a soft light pulsing just beneath her skin.
She didn't want to lose it.
Quietly, she reached for her old notebook. The one she hadn't used since before her daughter was born. She flipped past old grocery lists, pieces of poetry, dreams half written. Then, she found an empty page.
She wrote down everything she could remember—the moonlight, the floating, the reversing planet, the dry, golden skies, the circle of stones… and most of all, the name. She spelled it phonetically, hoping it would make sense later. The moment she wrote it, her chest fluttered. A part of her knew: this was no dream.
The next night, once her daughter was asleep again, she lit the same candle and tried to meditate the same way. She followed her breath. She remembered the feeling of floating. But this time, nothing came.
No drifting. No stars.
Just stillness.
Still, she didn't give up.
Over the next days, she returned to her notebook often, drawing fragments of what she'd seen, describing the golden-hazed sky, the mountain, the stones. She scoured old books late at night, whispered searches on the internet while rocking her baby with one foot. She tried keywords like ancient planets, past life visions, circle of stones in dreams, meditation travel, and soul names remembered.
Most results felt hollow, like echoes without a voice. But sometimes, she'd stumble across something—a mention of soul regression, a mention of astral travels and such. A few lines from a dusty article would give her chills. She saved them, wrote them down beside her drawings. A thread was forming.
What had begun as a vision was becoming a quest.
And she knew—this was only the beginning.
One evening, curled up on the old secondhand sofa, she came across a book in a forgotten corner of the library's archive. Its title struck her like a whispered memory: Journeys of the Astral Body. Her heart pounded as she read the description—accounts of souls separating from the body, floating across time and space, some even describing planetary visions and ancient memories.
She bought the book without hesitation.
Each night, while her daughter slept tucked in warm blankets, she read page after page. The author spoke of vibrations before departure, of the silver cord, of how some people naturally slipped into astral travel during sleep or deep meditation—especially those who had carried such gifts from a previous life.
One line made her pause: Sometimes, what you call a dream is a memory your soul remembers without asking permission.
She closed her eyes, remembering the silent weightlessness, the fading earth, the turn of time across the planet. It wasn't a dream. She was sure now.
The book included a method—gentle breathwork, relaxation of the body part by part, and visualization. The instructions advised patience, saying it may take weeks or months, but she had already experienced it once. Her soul remembered the path.
The next evening, after she laid her daughter down and tidied the kitchen, she lit the same candle from her moon meditations. She made the room warm and quiet. Then she lay down and followed the steps—breath by breath, limb by limb, she softened into stillness.
At first, nothing.
Then came a vibration—not loud, not shaking—but a gentle hum beneath her skin. Her heart quickened, but she stayed calm. She remembered what the book said: Let go, do not pull back.
And then—release.
She felt herself rise.
Not in body, but in being.
She floated upward through the ceiling, through the roof, until the stars opened before her like a great, ancient map. There were no wings, no sounds—only knowing. Only presence.
She drifted again above the earth, but this time, she could steer.
She thought of the brown, ancient planet from her first journey—and in the blink of a thought, she was there. The air shimmered, dry and golden. The circle of stones still stood. But now, she saw figures in long robes, whispering, waiting.
One of them turned to her.
"You have returned."
Her breath caught, even in this strange state. She felt her soul tremble.
"You remember the path. Soon, you'll remember the vow."
And just like that, the stars pulled her back. She awoke with a gasp, her hands gripping the edge of the couch, heart thudding wildly.
She was back—but everything had changed.
She scribbled in her notebook through tears—The vow. The figures. I remembered the way back.
Her search now had form. Her experiences weren't madness—they were messages.
And somewhere out there, something ancient was waiting for her to remember it all.