Rising From Ashes: My Reincarnated Love

The heavy glass doors of the local supermarket slid open. Cora Foster stepped into the brightly lit vestibule, rain dripping from the hem of her black hoodie.

The harsh, white fluorescent lights above flickered. They instantly illuminated the puddle forming around her worn canvas sneakers.

Cora reached up with freezing fingers. She pulled back her soaked hood just enough to see the aisles. The movement exposed the right side of her face.

The thick, dark red burn scar stretched from her jawline to her temple. It was jagged, angry, and impossible to ignore.

A heavy-set man pushing a shopping cart toward the exit stopped dead in his tracks. He sucked in a sharp, audible breath. His eyes widened in pure shock.

He didn't say a word. He just yanked his cart hard to the left, his tires squeaking against the linoleum. He avoided her gaze completely, rushing past her as if she were carrying a deadly virus.

Cora dropped her eyes to the floor. Her stomach tightened into a hard, painful knot. She forced herself to ignore the reaction. She walked toward the produce section, her wet shoes squeaking with every step.

She grabbed a plastic shopping basket. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the handle. She walked down aisle four and picked up a discounted box of microwave macaroni and cheese. She dropped it into the basket.

On the other side of the shelf, a supermarket employee named Trish Kowalski turned her head. Trish's eyes locked onto Cora's face.

The price-tag gun in Trish's hand slipped. It hit the floor with a loud clatter.

Trish didn't bother picking it up. She openly grimaced, her upper lip curling in disgust. She took a physical step backward, bumping into a display of canned beans.

Another employee, Sharon Miller, quickly stepped over. She nudged Trish's elbow, her posture stiffening as she pretended to restock a row of canned tomatoes. "Don't stare," Sharon murmured under her breath, her eyes fixed on the shelf but her voice tight with warning. "It's her... the one who always comes in late at night. The manager said just don't engage and let her buy her stuff."

Cora's chest squeezed. Her lungs felt like they were shrinking. She tightened her grip on the basket handle, the cheap plastic digging into her palm. She pretended the shelves were the most interesting thing in the world. She pretended she was deaf.

She turned on her heel and walked quickly toward the checkout lanes. She stopped behind a mother and her young daughter.

The little girl, Brittany White, peeked over her mother's shoulder. Her curious blue eyes landed on Cora.

Brittany stared at the scar. Her mouth fell open. Then, she let out a piercing, high-pitched scream.

Her mother, Karen White, spun around in a panic. She grabbed Brittany and yanked the child into her chest. Karen's eyes found Cora, and her expression morphed from fear to pure, unadulterated rage.

"What is wrong with you?" Karen yelled, her voice echoing across the quiet store. "Coming out looking like that in the middle of the night? You're terrifying my child! Have some common decency and cover your face!"

Every customer in the checkout lines turned to look. Their eyes were full of suspicion, defense, and pity.

Cora's heart hammered against her ribs so hard it physically hurt. Her throat closed up. She couldn't pull air into her lungs.

She clamped her jaw shut. She stared down at the scuffed toes of her canvas sneakers. She didn't defend herself. She never did.

Karen practically threw her cash at the cashier. She grabbed her bags and dragged her crying daughter toward the exit, running as if Cora were a monster about to attack them.

Cora stepped up to the register. She placed her single box of macaroni on the black conveyor belt.

The cashier, Tammy Hicks, refused to look up. Tammy kept her eyes glued to the scanner.

Tammy scanned the box with lightning speed. Her fingers visibly trembled as she punched the buttons on the register.

"Two dollars," Tammy muttered to the machine.

Cora handed her a crumpled five-dollar bill. Tammy snatched it, slammed the change onto the counter, and tossed the receipt next to it. She didn't say thank you. She didn't say have a good night.

Cora silently picked up the plastic bag. She reached up and pulled her hood far forward, completely hiding the right side of her face in the dark fabric.

She pushed through the heavy glass doors and stepped back out into the freezing downpour.

The icy rain hit the exposed skin of her scar. It stung like a swarm of angry bees.

Cora wrapped her arms tightly around her stomach. She lowered her head against the wind and started the long, lonely walk back to her empty apartment.

Cora crossed the flooded street and pushed open the heavy, creaking door of her rundown apartment building.

She shook the freezing rain from her jacket and started the climb up the dim, narrow stairwell to the third floor. Her wet sneakers squelched on the dirty concrete.

She pulled her keys from her pocket. Her fingers were stiff from the cold. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Total, suffocating darkness greeted her.

Cora peeled off her soaked hoodie and dropped it on the floor. She walked straight into the tiny, cramped bathroom.

She turned on the faucet. The pipes groaned. She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink with both hands, leaning her weight on her arms. She gasped for air, her chest heaving.

Slowly, she lifted her head. She forced herself to look into the cracked mirror. She stared at the ruined, dark red flesh on the right side of her face.

The memory of the little girl's scream echoed in her ears. Karen White's disgusted eyes flashed behind her eyelids. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

Cora turned the water to hot. She plunged her hands under the stream, grabbed a bar of cheap soap, and began to scrub her face.

She rubbed the scar tissue violently. Her skin turned bright red. It burned, but she couldn't stop. She scrubbed until her fingers ached, desperately trying to wash away the feeling of being dirty, of being a monster.

When she finally stopped, she dried her face with a rough towel. She walked into her bedroom, collapsed onto the narrow mattress, and stared blankly at the water stains on the ceiling.

The next morning, her alarm blared at six. Cora moved like a machine. She got out of bed and pulled on a thick, dark turtleneck sweater.

She brushed her long, dark hair forward, carefully arranging it to fall over the right side of her face. She swung her heavy backpack over her shoulder and left the apartment.

She rode the packed subway to the New York University archaeological research center. She kept her head down the entire ride.

When she walked into the main lobby, she stopped. The janitorial staff was frantically polishing the glass entrance doors.

The usually cluttered hallways were spotless. Someone had even laid down non-slip mats over the tiled floors.

Cora frowned. She adjusted her backpack straps and walked down the stairs to her basement laboratory.

She had just set her bag on her stool when her coworker, Lena Sullivan, slid over. Lena was holding a steaming cup of coffee.

"Did you see the lobby?" Lena whispered, her eyes wide with excitement. "There's a massive VIP coming to inspect the facility today."

Cora pulled a pair of blue latex gloves from the dispenser. "Which VIP?" she asked, not really caring.

"Word is, it's the heir to a massive conglomerate," Lena said, waving her free hand. "Billionaire status. They fund half the university."

Cora lost interest immediately. She turned her back to Lena and flicked on the bright LED light of her sterile workstation.

She picked up a pair of metal tweezers. Carefully, she lifted a small, delicate bone fragment from the Victorian era and placed it under the microscope.

The second her gloved finger brushed the surface of the old bone, her heart slammed against her ribs. A sudden, vivid auditory hallucination pierced her eardrums-the distant, sweeping melody of a string quartet playing a Victorian waltz, layered over the frantic rustling of heavy silk skirts. The phantom smell of burning beeswax candles and old dust filled her nose. It wasn't just panic; it was a visceral plunge into a memory that didn't belong to her current life. The sensory overload paralyzed her.

Cora's hand jerked. The metal tweezers slipped from her fingers and hit the stainless-steel table with a sharp clack.

Lena jumped at the noise. She turned around, her brow furrowing. "Cora? Are you okay? You look like you're going to pass out."

Cora took a deep, ragged breath. She forced the panic down into her stomach. She shook her head. "I'm fine. Just slipped."

Before Lena could press the issue, the heavy sound of synchronized dress shoes echoed in the hallway outside.

The laboratory door swung open. Dr. Thorne's assistant poked his head inside, looking frantic.

"Everyone drop what you're doing," the assistant ordered loudly. "Report to Conference Room One on the third floor. Right now."

Cora peeled off her latex gloves and threw them in the trash. She followed a buzzing, excited Lena out of the lab and toward the stairwell.

Cora and Lena pushed through the heavy oak double doors of Conference Room One.

The room was already packed. The atmosphere was thick with nervous tension. No one was talking above a whisper.

Cora immediately gravitated toward the back. She found an empty chair in the darkest corner and sat down. She tilted her head, letting her hair fall forward to shield her scar.

Dr. Marcus Thorne stood at the front of the room. He was sweating slightly as he adjusted the projector on the ceiling.

In the front row sat the university's top brass. Chairman Powell and Director Evans were wearing their most expensive suits, sitting rigidly in their leather chairs.

Dr. Thorne cleared his throat. He clicked a button on his remote.

A high-resolution aerial photograph flashed onto the projector screen. It showed a dense, dark forest in Upstate New York.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dr. Thorne began, his voice shaking with excitement. "During a routine geological survey, we have uncovered a massive, perfectly preserved family crypt dating back to the Gilded Age."

He clicked the remote again. The slide changed. It showed the entrance to a stone tomb, covered in intricate, gothic Victorian carvings.

A collective gasp echoed through the conference room. Finding an untouched mausoleum from that era was practically unheard of.

"Because of the immense funding we've just secured," Dr. Thorne continued, "we are assembling an elite advance team to begin excavation immediately."

He picked up a clipboard from the podium. He started reading names.

In the second row, Chloe Vance and Jessica Lane sat up perfectly straight. They exchanged confident, eager smiles.

Dr. Thorne read off the names of three senior specialists. Then, he paused.

He looked up from the clipboard. His eyes scanned the crowded room and locked directly onto Cora in the back corner.

"Cora Foster," Dr. Thorne said clearly into the microphone.

The entire conference room went dead silent. Every single head turned to look at the back row.

Chloe whipped her head around. She let out a loud, theatrical scoff of pure disgust.

Jessica leaned over to Chloe and whispered loudly enough for half the room to hear, "Why is she going? Is this some kind of pity charity case?"

Cora felt the blood rush to her face. Her cheeks burned. She intertwined her fingers in her lap and squeezed until her joints ached. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.

Dr. Thorne tapped his pen against the microphone to regain control. "Need I remind this room of the unidentified harbor remains from last year?" he said firmly, his voice echoing off the walls. "Ms. Foster was the only one who correctly identified the subject as a 19th-century Irish dockworker, based entirely on the wear patterns of a single carpal bone-a conclusion later verified by isotopic analysis. Her intuition and foundational knowledge are exactly what we need out there."

Chairman Powell nodded in agreement. He stood up and announced that the meeting was adjourned. Everyone needed to pack their gear.

The crowd began to filter out. Chloe walked past Cora's row. She intentionally veered off course and slammed her shoulder hard into Cora's.

Cora stumbled sideways against her chair. She didn't say a word. She just kept her head down and started packing her notebook.

Dr. Thorne walked up the aisle and stopped in front of her. He handed her a thick stack of papers.

"Non-disclosure agreements," he said softly. He looked her right in the eye. "I know how good you are, Cora. Ignore the noise."

He patted her shoulder gently. "Take tonight to pack. And maybe go visit your father before we leave. We'll be off the grid for a while."

At the mention of her father, Cora's eyes dulled. A cold numbness spread through her chest. She gave a stiff, tiny nod.

She shoved the NDA documents into her backpack. She turned and walked out of the emptying conference room.

Cora walked down the quiet hallway back to her desk. She took a deep breath, preparing to look at the preliminary blueprints Thorne had emailed her.