Two Worlds
Rasha sipped the lukewarm Earl, Grey doing little to warm her chilled fingers. Outside, a London drizzle mirrored the persistent dampness in her soul. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” she asked the empty room, the question hanging in the air like the scent of old books.
Dasharview. A new-age term for remembering past lives. Most people scoffed, dismissing it as wishful thinking or elaborate fantasies. But Rasha knew. She knew with a certainty that hummed beneath her skin, a knowledge woven into the very fabric of her being.
Her conviction stemmed from the visions. They weren’t fleeting glimpses or hazy dreams, but vibrant, immersive experiences that flooded her senses. The smell of yeast rising, the rhythmic scrape of a baker’s peel against brick, the warmth of a wood-fired oven against her cheek. She saw cobbled streets slick with rain, heard the clatter of horse-drawn carts, tasted the sweet, yeasty tang of freshly baked sourdough.
She saw herself, too. A girl with flour-dusted cheeks, dark braids framing a worried face, and strong, capable hands kneading dough. Her name, she felt, was Nettie She was a baker’s daughter in a small village in France, sometime in the early 1900s.
These visions were more than just memories; they were ingrained habits. Rasha found herself instinctively knowing how to proof bread, how to gauge the temperature of the oven without a thermometer, how to coax the perfect crust from a simple loaf. It was as if Elara still lived within her, her skills and experiences imprinted on Rasha’s soul.
Of course, she’d tried to explain it to others. Her therapist had gently attributed it to an overactive imagination and anxiety. Her friends had humoured her, suggesting she join a historical reenactment group. But no one understood the profound, undeniable truth that burned inside her.
One afternoon, driven by an insatiable need to connect with Elara’s life, Rasha found herself at the British Library, poring over historical records of French villages in the early 20th century. She sifted through census data, local newspapers, and old photographs, her heart pounding with a mixture of hope and trepidation.
Days turned into weeks, and the search became an obsession. She felt a growing desperation, a yearning to find some tangible proof, some validation that she wasn’t simply delusional.
Finally, nestled within a dusty archive of local history pamphlets, she found it. A faded photograph of a bakery in a small French village, a place called Saint-Germain-des-Pré’s. In
the background, partially obscured by a delivery cart, stood a young girl with dark braids and flour-dusted cheeks. The resemblance was uncanny. It was Nettie.
Below the photograph, a caption identified the bakery as “Boulangerie Dubois,” and mentioned a tragedy that had befallen the family during the First World War. The baker, Pierre Dubois, had died on the front lines, leaving his wife and daughter to struggle to keep the bakery afloat.
Rasha’s breath hitched. This wasn’t just a vision; it was history. Elara’s story, her story, was real.
The discovery brought a wave of relief, but also a profound sense of sadness. She felt Nettie’s pain, her fear, her loss. And she understood, with heartbreaking clarity, why she felt that persistent dampness in her soul. It was the echo of Nettie’s grief, a silent lament for a life interrupted by war.
Rasha continued researching, learning as much as she could about Elara and her family. She discovered that after Pierre’s death, Nettie and her mother had eventually been forced to sell the bakery. Nettie had never married, and according to the records, had lived a quiet, solitary life.
Knowing this, Rasha felt a newfound responsibility. She wouldn’t let Elara’s story be forgotten. She enrolled in a baking course, meticulously recreating Nettie’s signature sourdough. She started a small blog, sharing her recipes and the story of the baker’s daughter from Saint-Germain-des-Pré’s.
Slowly, Rasha began to heal. By honouring Nettie’s memory, she was also healing herself. The dampness in her soul began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of purpose and connection.
Whether or not she truly believed in Dasharview, Rasha had found something profound in her visions. She had found a connection to the past, a purpose in the present, and a hope for the future. And in the aroma of freshly baked bread, she found a way to keep Nettie alive, one loaf at a time. The taste of sourdough, then, became a whisper saying, “You are not alone, Rasha. We are here.”
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C. Langley
Leave a Reply