Chapter 36: Overlapping Memories (Part 4)

Popuri tossed and turned beneath her blankets, her body caught in the restless pull of another dream—one that felt far too real to be imagination. Shadows wavered and bled together around her until the world itself seemed to ripple, colors running like watercolor across wet paper. Shapes emerged from the blur—soft edges hardening, light and sound settling into place—until she found herself standing in a room that made her breath catch.

A bedroom. The other Popuri's bedroom. The one she had glimpsed before in her dreams. Everything was achingly familiar—the floral curtains, the old wooden dresser by the window, the faint scent of lavender sachets tucked between the linens. But she wasn't alone in the bedroom.

Across the room, a small figure lay curled beneath a thick quilt. Popuri's heart clenched as she drew closer. It was her. Or the younger version of her; no older than eleven. Her skin was pale, her cheeks burning with fever. Wisps of pink hair clung damply to her forehead, and every shallow breath came with a soft, broken cough that rattled in the still air.

The scent of herbs lingered heavy in the room—mint, chamomile, honey—and through the open window came the tender breath of Summer wind. The curtains fluttered gently, the sunlight spilling in golden ribbons across the wooden floor. It should have been comforting, but the warmth did nothing to chase away the chill that seeped from the child's frail body.

Popuri's throat tightened. She took a hesitant step forward, her voice barely a whisper. "…Is that really me?"

But the girl didn't stir. She only whimpered softly, clutching the edge of her blanket as another coughing fit wracked her small frame. Popuri's hands trembled. The sight was unbearable; a reflection of herself she didn't recognize, caught between life and fragility. And deep down, she could feel something in this moment, something heavy and hidden beneath the dream's surface.

The wooden floorboards creaked softly, a sound so vivid it seemed to echo in both the dream and her bones. The younger Popuri stirred, her fevered eyes drifting toward the doorway.

A boy stood there. No older than eleven, his brown hair tousled by the wind, his cheeks flushed with the color of running. His clothes were smeared with dirt and grass stains, the mark of someone who spent his days chasing sunlight through the fields.

Popuri's breath caught. For a moment, she couldn't place who he is. The years between the memory and the man she knew now blurring his face. But then she saw it. The faint dimple that appeared when he frowned, the familiar slope of his nose, the quiet steadiness in his eyes. It was Pete, a much younger Pete.

He hovered in the doorway as though afraid to break something fragile, his expression hesitant but full of quiet resolve. Slowly, he moved towards the young Popuri. In his small, outstretched hands, he held a bundle of flowers. Soft, delicate, and impossibly pink. Their petals shimmered faintly in the sunlight spilling through the window, filling the air with a scent that was sweet and clean and just a little nostalgic.

"Pink Catmints," young Popuri whispered, her voice trembling as the name came to her unbidden, pulled not from her mind, but from her soul.

"Your mom said they help when you're sick," young Pete said gently. His voice carried that careful tone of a boy trying not to sound scared, trying to be brave for someone who mattered.

The younger Popuri pushed herself up weakly, her small hand trembling as she whiffed the bouquet. Her fingertips brushed his, and a faint smile touched her lips.

The older Popuri—watching, dreaming, imagining—felt it too. The warmth of his hand. The cool, tender stems against her skin. The kindness behind such a simple act. It flooded through her like sunlight after a storm. A memory. It felt like a memory. But it wasn't.

Pete had never brought her flowers. She had never been sick in bed while he sat by her side. The moment playing out before her eyes could not have happened—and yet, her heart ached with the impossible certainty that it should have.

Tears welled in her eyes as she watched the young Pete place the flowers carefully in a vase of water beside the bed. The girl smiled up at him, her fever momentarily forgotten.

Popuri pressed a trembling hand to her heart, her throat tightening. "Why does this feel so real?" she wondered. "Why does it feel like something I lost—something I was never meant to forget?"

In the hazy warmth of the dream, the air shimmered like sunlight through glass. Young Popuri reached out, her hand trembling only slightly as she pressed her palm against Pete's chest—right over the steady rhythm of his heart. The gesture was so small, so innocent, yet it carried a tenderness that rippled through the moment, grounding it in something achingly real.

Her fever had faded in the dreamlight, replaced by a calm, almost knowing serenity. She smiled up at him—softly, sweetly, with an understanding far beyond her years. "Don't forget," she whispered, her voice fragile and luminous, like the chime of a bell carried on the wind.

Pete blinked, confused. "Forget what?" he asked, but even as the words left his lips, he wasn't sure he wanted an answer.

"It's growing," she said. Her voice was steady this time, certain. The weight of her words pressed gently against the stillness between them, as though she were speaking to more than just the boy before her—as though she were speaking across feelings themselves.

Pete looked down at her small hand, then back into her eyes. For a heartbeat, the entire world seemed to narrow to that single point of connection—his heart beneath her palm, her gaze bright with something eternal. He smiled, warmth blooming through him like Spring after a long Winter.

But before he could speak—before he could ask her what it was—the dream began to dissolve. The light around them fractured into gold and white, melting the room, the flowers, and the sound of her breathing into a swirl of fading color. Only her voice remained, soft and distant, echoing through the void.

"Don't forget. It's growing."

Then there was nothing—only silence, and the faint, lingering thrum of his heartbeat beneath her touch.

That morning, the house was unusually quiet. Only the gentle clink of a spoon against porcelain broke the stillness. Popuri sat slouched at the breakfast table, her chin propped on one hand as she absently stirred her porridge. The steam rising from the bowl curled in lazy ribbons, disappearing into the morning air. She hadn't even taken a bite.

A long yawn escaped her, and she rubbed at her eyes, dark circles shadowing the brightness that usually lived there. Every blink felt heavy, every breath tinged with the remnants of her dreams—the ones that seemed to follow her even after she woke. They weren't nightmares, not exactly, but they left her unsettled, as though she had lived a whole other life while she slept.

Across the table, Lillia watched her daughter with quiet concern. Her hands moved slowly as she poured tea, her eyes soft but searching. "Still having those strange dreams?" she asked, her voice light but laced with worry.

Popuri nodded, the spoon in her hand clinking against the bowl. "Yeah…" she murmured, her voice small. "They don't make sense, but they feel real. Like… like memories I forgot I had."

Lillia's expression softened. She set her teacup down and reached across the table, brushing a stray lock of pink hair from Popuri's face before gently patting her head. "You've been through a lot lately, sweetheart," she said with a reassuring smile. "When things start to calm down, I'm sure your dreams will too. Sometimes the heart just needs time to catch up to the rest of us."

Popuri tried to smile back, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She lowered her gaze to her untouched porridge, the spoon still circling in slow, tired motions. If only her heart would stop feeling like it was trying to remember something she'd never lived.

Popuri bit her lip, her gaze fixed on the untouched bowl before her. The steam had faded, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was far away—back in that strange, hazy dream and the image of him. Young Pete.

She could still feel the warmth of his presence, the calm steadiness in his voice as he offered her those flowers. The way her younger self had looked at him—with such trust, such effortless affection—it tugged at something deep within her. They had seemed like childhood friends, two souls bound by years of laughter and simple joys. The kind of friendship that rooted itself quietly, growing alongside until it became part of who they were.

But that wasn't the Pete she knew. The real Pete, the one who lived here in Mineral Town, was different. Not cold, exactly, but distant. Gentle, polite, reserved… a man whose kindness never quite crossed into closeness.

She remembered the first time she'd met him five years ago. He had been new to town then, walking down the road with a nervous kind of determination, greeting people as he passed. She'd been outside hanging laundry when he stopped to introduce himself. They had shaken hands, exchanged a few pleasantries, and then he was gone.

Since then, his presence had been a quiet rhythm in the background of her life. He came by the ranch now and then to buy feed for his chickens, always offering a courteous smile, a brief hello—and then he'd disappear again, retreating to the solitude of his farm. Festivals came and went, and though their paths crossed under lanterns and fireworks, their words never went deeper than polite small talk.

Popuri stirred her spoon absently, rippling in the untouched porridge. Pete was kind, yes—but his warmth was reserved for Elli. Everyone saw it. The two of them orbiting each other like twin stars, their little world so perfectly self-contained that no one dared to intrude. Outside of that, he was a ghost. Always present, yet untouchable.

She sighed quietly, the memory of her dream pressing against her chest like a soft ache. The boy from her dream had smiled at her as though she were his whole world. The man she knew now barely met her eyes. So why did she feel like they were the same person?

After a long silence, Popuri stirred her porridge once more, her thoughts far away. Then, hesitantly, she asked, "Mom… was Pete and I ever friends when we were kids?"

Lillia blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Friends?" she repeated, tilting her head. "No, dear. You first met Pete five years ago, when he took over Tony's farm, remember?"

Popuri slumped back in her chair, her spoon clinking softly against the bowl. She stared up at the ceiling, her voice barely above a mumble. "What a dumb question. It's not like Pete was ever here as a kid anyway."

"Actually," Lillia said, her tone gentle but thoughtful, "that's not entirely true."

Popuri froze mid-bite, her spoon hovering in the air. "What do you mean?"

Lillia smiled faintly, her eyes distant as she sifted through old memories. "Pete did visit Mineral Town when he was little. I remember because he came here with Tony one Summer day. They stopped by the ranch many years ago."

Popuri nearly choked. She sat up straight, eyes wide. "Wait—what? He was here?"

Lillia nodded, the memory coming into sharper focus. "Mm-hmm. Pete couldn't have been older than ten. Tony came by to buy feed, and Pete followed him around like a cute little shadow. Quiet, polite, always looking around like the world was brand new to him. I remember it like it was yeaterday, he had this cute little dimple when he frowned. City kids don't understand rural life after all."

She paused, her expression softening. "Rick had just started helping out around that time, right after your father left. I remember the heat of that day, the smell of chickens and the sea air. But you…"

Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "You weren't here, sweetheart. You were down at the beach with Mary and the others, hunting for seashells. You missed them completely."

Popuri sat very still, her mind spinning. She tried to picture it; the Summer air, the sound of the waves in the distance, and somewhere, not far away, a boy with brown hair and dirt-stained clothes following Tony through the town. And she had no idea it happened.

Popuri sighed, sinking back into her chair. That didn't help at all—it only deepened the mystery swirling inside her head. If she and Pete had never met as children, then why did her dreams feel so real? Why did she remember the warmth of his hand, the softness of the flowers, the sound of his voice as if it had truly happened?

She tapped her spoon absently against the rim of her bowl, lost in thought. Then, like a small light flickering in the dark, another memory surfaced—something Pete had said in passing. A childhood friend.

Her heart quickened. If Pete had been in Mineral Town before, then maybe there was a connection after all. "Mom," she said slowly, looking up. "Pete mentioned a childhood friend a couple of times. Do you… know anything about that?"

Lillia's expression softened into thought. For a moment, she didn't answer—her eyes distant, as if combing through the years. Then she nodded faintly. "He must have meant Isabella."

"Isabella?" Popuri repeated. "Who's that?"

Lillia gave her a patient smile, the kind only a mother could manage. "Did you forget? That was Gotz's daughter."

Popuri blinked, startled. Then she smacked her forehead lightly. "Oh—right! That girl who used to live out in the forest! I forgot Gotz even had a family…" Her brow furrowed as another realization struck her. "But wait… didn't she—"

Lillia's expression turned somber, her voice dipping low. "Yes. It was a tragedy. Isabella and her mother were caught in a snowstorm on Mother's Hill that Winter. Neither of them made it back."

The words hung heavy in the air. Lillia's gaze then drifted toward the window, where the morning light spilled over the fields. Outside, Rick was scattering feed for the chickens, his movements steady and familiar. "I still remember the funeral," she murmured. "Tony came on behalf of Pete. He said Pete was heartbroken when he got the news."

Popuri's fingers tightened around her spoon. Lillia went on softly, her eyes unfocused as she traced the memory. "Pete couldn't come to the funeral—he was just a boy, and the journey from the city was too far. But Tony told me that the following Summer, Pete came to visit her grave. He stayed only a few days. Then… he never came back again. Not until Tony passed away."

Silence settled between them. Popuri stared down at her porridge. The faint ache in her chest deepened, twisting into something she couldn't quite name. It was as if the dream had brushed against a memory that wasn't hers—something fragile and sorrowful that had lingered in the air long before she'd ever known Pete.

"I'm surprised he ever came back to Mineral Town after that," Lillia said softly, her voice threaded with quiet melancholy. She traced the rim of her teacup, eyes distant with memory. "Sasha, Anna, and Manna once told me they all thought Pete and Isabella would marry when they grew up. They were inseparable, those two. But…" She paused, her gaze falling. "Fate can be cruel at times."

Popuri's chest tightened. A faint ache bloomed behind her ribs as she looked down at her hands, fingers curling against the table. She remembered the few times Pete had spoken of his friend—never in detail, never for long—but there had always been a shadow in his voice, a tenderness wrapped in grief. She had never truly thought about what that meant. Not until now.

The image of Pete—quiet, steadfast, a man who carried the weight of things he rarely said aloud—began to take shape in a new light. Maybe that was why he kept his distance. Why he seemed content with solitude, or why he clung so closely to Elli, cherishing every quiet moment with her. It wasn't indifference that made him hard to reach. It was loss. Popuri exhaled softly, her heart heavy with understanding.

For the first time, she didn't just see Pete as the quiet farmer who lived alone on the farm; she saw the boy who had loved and lost, the man who had learned to treasure what remained so he would never have to feel that emptiness again.

As Popuri finished the last bites of her breakfast, Lillia set down her teacup with a soft clink and smiled. "We're out of milk," she said. "Could you run to the store and pick some up?"

Popuri stretched her arms above her head, her joints popping as she stifled a yawn. "Sure," she murmured, still shaking off the haze of sleep. She pushed her chair back and rose from the table, her bare feet padding lightly across the wooden floor as she rushed to her room to get dressed.

Outside, the air was fresh and golden with early light. The sun warmed her face as she stepped into the yard, but her thoughts remained clouded. The weight of the morning's conversation clung to her like mist—Lillia's words echoing in her mind: Pete and Isabella.

She still couldn't quite imagine it, losing someone so young, someone who meant that much. The idea alone tugged at something deep inside her. How could anyone come back to a place filled with ghosts of what they'd lost and still find the strength to start over?

Popuri sighed and tried to shake the thought away. Lillia needed milk, that was simple enough. She reached into her skirt pocket, counting the few coins in her hand. Not much. Enough for the milk, maybe a little more. But then her gaze drifted down the road toward Pete's farm, the weathered fence gleaming faintly in the sunlight.

She hesitated. Lately, he'd been finding himself at their doorstep more often than she expected—sometimes to chat, sometimes just to watch Rick work. Pete had always been polite, a little quiet, but there was something steady and reassuring about him, even in his silences. After what she had learned about his past, that quietness didn't seem so mysterious anymore.

Her fingers closed around the coins. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to ask him for a favor. There was nothing wrong with putting this newfound friendship to good use, after all. The cost of her mother's medicine was adding up, and any chance to save a few coins mattered. If she could trade some eggs later in exchange for milk today, it would help stretch their family budget a little further.

Decision made, Popuri turned toward Pete's farm, her steps quickening. The morning breeze lifted her hair as she crossed the path between their homes, a small, unspoken anticipation stirring in her chest. If nothing else, it was a reason to see him again—and maybe to uncover another piece of the quiet mystery that surrounded him.

Popuri stepped onto the farm, the morning sunlight spilling across the path like liquid gold. The scent of earth and clover drifted through the air, warm and familiar, yet somehow different here—richer, calmer, grounded in a rhythm that seemed uniquely Pete's.

Despite living next door for years, she had only set foot on his land once before. From afar, the farm always looked quiet, almost ordinary. But standing here now, surrounded by the hum of life and the soft rustle of crops swaying in the breeze, she realized how wrong she'd been.

Rows of pineapple and watermelon stretched toward the sun, their green leaves glinting with dew. The sight made her pause, a quiet awe rising in her chest. When they ripened, they would fetch a high price at the market—lush, healthy, perfectly tended. Pete certainly knew what he was doing.

"Guess you're not just a quiet farmer after all," she murmured under her breath, a small smile tugging at her lips.

She glanced around, expecting to spot him working somewhere among the fields, but the farm was still. Only the faint chirp of insects and the distant clucking of chickens broke the silence. Frowning, she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and turned toward the barn.

As she approached, the air grew warmer, carrying the scent of hay, soil, and livestock. Sunlight streamed through the wooden slats, casting long golden beams across the straw-strewn floor. And there kneeling beside one of the cows was Pete.

He worked with quiet concentration, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he filled glass bottles with smooth, practiced motions. The cow lowed softly, and he murmured something gentle to it, too quiet for her to hear, but enough to make her chest tighten unexpectedly.

Popuri let out a small sigh of relief, she wasn't too late. If he had already processed the milk into butter or cheese, she would've had to go all the way to Jeff's store after all. For a moment, she simply watched him. The steady rhythm of his movements, the calm patience in his posture—it all felt… different. Not the aloof, distant farmer she'd known for years, but someone gentler, more deliberate. Someone who carried both weight and peace in equal measure.

Finally, she cleared her throat softly and stepped forward, the straw crunching beneath her boots. "Hey, Pete," she called with a small smile. "Got a minute?"

He turned at the sound of her voice, surprise flickering briefly across his face before softening into a smile. "Oh—hey, Popuri," he said, straightening up and wiping his hands on a worn towel slung over a nearby post. "Didn't expect to see you here this early. What's up?"

Popuri offered a hopeful smile, trying to sound casual. "Could I borrow some milk? I'll trade you some eggs later."

Pete let out an easy chuckle, the sound warm and unguarded. "You don't have to trade me anything," he said, reaching for one of the still-warm bottles beside the stool. He handed it to her with that quiet, steady kindness she was beginning to recognize as his own kind of language. "Fresh from the source."

The glass was warm against her palms, the scent of hay and milk thick in the air. For a moment, Popuri couldn't bring herself to look away from him—the faint sheen of sweat on his temple, the calm rhythm in his movements, the way his eyes softened when he smiled.

"Thanks, Pete," she murmured, her voice quieter than she intended.

He gave a simple nod and crouched again beside the cow, his focus returning to the work at hand. The gentle schh-schh of milk filling another bottle was almost hypnotic. Popuri lingered longer than she should have, her thoughts a restless tumble of curiosity and something else she couldn't quite name.

Finally, she took a breath. "Hey, Pete?"

He glanced up briefly, brow arched. "Yeah?"

Her fingers tightened slightly around the bottle. "Do you still think about her?"

He paused mid-motion, confusion flickering across his face. "Her?"

Popuri's heart gave a small, nervous flutter. "You know… Isabella."

Pete's expression didn't change right away. Then, slowly, he turned to face her, his brow furrowing in genuine puzzlement. "Who's Isabella?"

Popuri's breath caught in her throat. The air seemed to thicken, the low hum of the barn suddenly too loud. Her mother's words from that morning echoed in her head— "Tony said Pete was devastated when she died… that he came back one Summer to visit her grave."

Popuri forced herself to stay calm, drawing in a slow breath even as unease coiled tightly in her chest. "You know…" she began carefully, searching his face for the slightest flicker of recognition. "The childhood friend you sometimes talk about." Her voice trembled, just enough to betray her nerves.

Popuri felt the blood drain from her face. This didn't make sense. How could he not remember? But still, she saw the truth in his eyes. Nothing. No flicker of memory, no hesitation, not even the faintest trace of recognition.

Pete's brows knit tighter. "I don't know anyone by that name," he said softly, almost apologetically. "Sorry."

The air in the barn seemed to vanish all at once. Popuri's throat went dry, her pulse thundering in her ears. "That's impossible." Every word her mother had told her that morning came crashing back—about the boy who had mourned a friend he couldn't save, the child who had once visited a grave next to the church. If that story was true… who was standing in front of her now?

She stepped back without realizing it, the edges of her vision blurring. "I—I have to go," she whispered, clutching the bottle of milk so tightly her knuckles turned pale.

"Popuri?" Pete started to rise, concern flickering across his face. But before he could take a step toward her, she turned and bolted from the barn. The wooden doors creaked shut behind her, leaving Pete standing alone in the golden dust motes that drifted through the air. He frowned slightly, watching the spot where she'd stood only seconds ago.

"What was that about…?" he murmured, half to himself. The cow lowed softly beside him, unbothered. Pete gave a small, bewildered shake of his head before returning to his work—but as he reached for the next bottle, his hands trembled faintly, though he didn't seem to know why.

When Popuri returned home, the late morning light streamed through the kitchen window, casting warm golden stripes across the floorboards. She held the bottle of milk so tightly her knuckles were numb, the glass slick against her palms.

"That was quick," Lillia said pleasantly as she glanced over her shoulder, wiping her hands on a towel. She reached to take the bottle, but Popuri didn't let go right away. Only after a brief hesitation did she finally release it, her fingers lingering for a beat too long.

Lillia frowned slightly, setting the milk on the counter. "You alright, sweetheart? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Popuri blinked rapidly, forcing a small, brittle laugh. "No, I'm fine," she said quickly. "I just… ran home, that's all."

Her words came out too fast, too rehearsed. Lillia didn't miss it. Her mother's eyes—gentle yet sharp in that maternal way—lingered on her face for a long moment before softening. "Well, you didn't have to sprint for it," she said lightly, trying to tease some calm into her daughter's tense posture.

But Popuri didn't smile. Her mind was miles away, still trapped in the echo of Pete's voice—"I don't know anyone by that name."

She swallowed hard, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve before finally blurting out, "Mom… would it be weird if Pete didn't remember Isabella?"

The question froze the air between them. Lillia's hands stilled on the refrigerator door. Slowly, she turned, her expression caught between disbelief and confusion.

"Yes," she said at last, the word slow and heavy. "That would be very strange." She studied Popuri, her brows knitting tighter with every passing second. "She meant so much to him. He was heartbroken when she passed. Why—" Her voice faltered, her gaze sharpening. "Why would you even ask that?"

Popuri's throat tightened. She could still hear the way Pete had said it, the sincerity in his tone that left no room for doubt. He hadn't been lying. He truly didn't remember.

"No reason," she lied softly, forcing her lips into a faint smile. "Just curious."

Popuri swallowed hard, her mother's words echoing faintly in her ears as she turned away. Her steps up the staircase were slow, heavy, each creak of the wood beneath her feet matching the frantic rhythm of her pulse.

When she reached her room, she shut the door softly behind her and leaned against it, her breath trembling. The morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and thin, painting faint gold across her rumpled bedspread. With a sigh, she let herself fall onto the mattress, eyes unfocused on the ceiling above.

"If Isabella isn't the girl Pete remembers from his childhood… then who is?"

The question looped endlessly in her mind, refusing to let her rest. She lifted a hand toward the ceiling, fingers splayed, as though trying to grasp something that wasn't there. Her hand trembled faintly.

"Pete's been different," she whispered into the quiet. "Ever since the day he collapsed near the hot springs… it's like he woke up as someone else."

The memory sent a chill through her. She remembered the concerned tone in Elli's voice, the way Pete had looked afterward—confused, distant, yet strangely… tender. Like someone who knew her too well, even when he shouldn't have.

Her dreams came rushing back then—those vivid, impossible dreams. The laughter, the warmth, the sense of home that didn't belong to her waking life. The Pete in her dreams wasn't the quiet, detached farmer she had known for five years. He was familiar in ways she couldn't explain. His smile, his touch, the way he said her name—it felt real, like a memory carved into her heart by someone she had never met.

And then there was "that dream". The one where she and Pete sat together, sharing something she had never heard of before: Strawberry Dogs. The sweet, strange treat that only appeared in that dream.

Pete had casually mentioned them to Elli. And Elli had asked her about it. Something deep in her mind was teasing her to make them. Popuri had tried, half out of curiosity, half out of a strange compulsion she couldn't name. And when Pete had taken a bite, he smiled and said they were perfect... too perfect. He said it with such quiet certainty that it had made her skin prickle.

But now she knew. He had tasted them before. Not from Isabella's hands like she once thought.

Popuri pressed a trembling hand to her lips, her heart pounding wildly now. The pieces didn't fit yet, but they were forming a shape too strange to ignore. The dreams began after he changed… after that day by the hot springs.

Her breath caught. A chill spread through her chest, equal parts awe and fear. "Could it be possible," she whispered, voice barely audible, "that the Pete in my dreams… and the Pete living next door… are the same person?"

The silence that followed was thick, charged, as if the room itself was holding its breath. Outside, a soft breeze rattled the windowpane, and Popuri looked out thebwindow towards the farm. For the first time, she wasn't sure whether she was dreaming—or finally starting to wake up.