"The Stranger Who Remembered Me Before I Was Born"

I was 27 the first time someone told me they remembered me before I existed.

It happened on a late train — the kind that smells like metal and old gum, where time feels a little warped and nobody looks anyone in the eye.

She sat across from me. Older. Dressed in navy blue. Her coat had too many buttons, and her shoes were scuffed like they'd walked through more than cities. There was something fragile about her, but also something ancient — not in years, but in knowing.

She stared.

I noticed, but pretended not to. You know how we are — trained to avoid connection like it’s contagious. AirPods in, phone out, world off.

But then she said:

“You’ve finally come back.”

I half-laughed. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

She didn’t blink.

“No. You’ve just forgotten. You always do. Until the wind brings you back.”

There was a strange pause, the kind that makes time slow down even though the train kept moving. I was going to say something dismissive — but I didn’t. Because her voice had that rare thing: it didn’t sound like it was asking for attention. It sounded like it was simply delivering a truth.

She leaned in. Not close enough to invade, but just enough to invite.

“You used to make kites,” she said. “Big ones. With strips of old fabric and tree branches. You gave them to children. You said the wind didn’t belong to anyone, so why should the sky?”

I stared at her.

She smiled, like someone remembering sunshine.

“You fell in love with a girl who couldn’t speak. She painted her dreams on walls. And you swore you could hear them.”

Her eyes locked into mine.

“You promised to find her again.”

I should’ve laughed. I should’ve smiled politely and gone back to scrolling through my phone. But I didn’t.

Because in some strange way, my chest recognized what she was saying. Like a chord was struck somewhere deep inside that hadn’t been played in years.

I asked her name.

“I’m not the point,” she said gently. “You are.”

She began to tell me things.

Things I’d never spoken aloud.

That I collect broken clocks but never fix them. That I cry sometimes when I hear a child laugh, even if I don’t know why. That I’ve always hated mirrors that show my reflection in dim light — because I feel like someone else is staring back.

She told me that once, in a different time, I saved someone from drowning and they spent a lifetime searching for my face in strangers. She said that we carry echoes — “unfinished promises, old dreams, and stories we swore to finish.”

“You’ve carried so many lifetimes in your spine,” she whispered. “It’s why your back hurts when you’re sad.”

I couldn’t speak.

Not because I believed it all — not yet — but because something inside me wanted to.

The train reached a station. She stood, brushing lint from her coat like she was preparing for something more important than stepping off a subway.

I stood too, unsure why.

She reached out and touched my face. Her fingers were cold, soft, like old silk.

“She’s here now. The girl from the old life. You’ll know her. You’ll feel it before you see it.”

“And when you do,” she said, pausing like she wanted me to truly listen, “remember to stay this time.”

Then she was gone.

No dramatic exit. No parting line. Just a woman walking into the city, disappearing into the noise of life.

I searched for her.

I asked the conductor. Checked for cameras. Nothing.

No one saw her. No one remembered her. No one matched the description.

Two months later, I met someone.

She worked at an art supply store tucked between a bakery and a laundromat. She had quiet eyes. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, it felt like her words had been carefully folded and placed on her tongue hours earlier.

The first time she touched my hand — just a brush while passing me a receipt — my body froze.

Images rushed in.

Dust. Wind. Colorful kites. Laughter. Paint on walls. A girl without a voice. A boy who listened anyway.

I stepped outside that day and almost collapsed on the curb.

Because suddenly, I remembered how it felt to lose her.

And now, she was here.

We’re still together.

We don’t talk about the train. Not directly. But some nights, she’ll hum a tune I don’t know but somehow remember. A lullaby from a lifetime I’ve never lived — but feel homesick for.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I ask if she believes in souls meeting across lifetimes.

She always says the same thing:

“I believe that love is older than time. And some people are just magnets for each other — no matter how many lives it takes.”

So maybe that woman on the train wasn’t real.

Maybe she was a part of my subconscious, pulling old stories from my marrow and wrapping them in mystery.

Or maybe — just maybe — we’re all walking around with little bits of memory we didn’t make in this life.

And every once in a while, someone comes along who sees them, names them, and hands them back to us.

If that’s true, then I owe her everything.

Because if she hadn’t reminded me…

…I might have walked right past the love I spent lifetimes searching for.