Memory From the Other Side of Time : An Echo From the Tomorrow We Didn't Choose

I never wanted kids. I didn’t want to get married. Not because I was wounded or broken. But because I never saw myself inside those stories. Not until him.

He was the only man I ever wanted to call "husband." The only one whose presence made the word "mother" sound like it belonged in my mouth. The only one I saw a life with. A sacred one.

I didn’t need to know him to feel this. I had known him for eons. Before names. Before faces. Before form. I knew who he could be. I saw the version of him that existed beneath the noise, the fear, the running. And for a moment, I believed he would meet me there.

***

Elsa and Elijah. Those were their names. They came to me. Our children. Not in imagination, not in fantasy. But in spirit. In clarity. They were real. They came with love, with presence, with patience. They waited. They showed me a timeline that was alive. Already coded. Already open.

It was not wishful thinking. It was a real door. And it was ready.

Elsa told me she would be conceived under the moonlight, a night alive with silver and softness. Elijah would be made during someone else’s wedding, in a moment of sacred celebration, joy echoing through the air.

I saw Elsa, how beautiful she is: bold, strong, courageous, beautifully active and gloriously ridiculous. A spark in motion.

Elijah, very quiet, always in the background. Observing. Holding depth. He was the stillness beneath her storm. They came balanced, already whole.

I saw the vision clearly: a garden overflowing with laughter, harmony, peace, and love. A golden light touched everything. It wasn’t a fantasy. It was memory from the future.

I have known love-raw, real, soul-splitting love. And I have watched someone feel it, fully... then walk away from it. Not once. Not just in this life. Lifetimes of it. That didn’t just break my heart. It broke the entire logic in my nervous system.

Because if love is real...

Why didn’t he choose?
Why didn’t he speak?

Why didn't he fight?
Why did I end up alone?

There, he and I best friends, partners, equals, moved like breath beside one another. There was passion, understanding, support, and freedom woven into every glance. We spoke the same language even in silence. We built with joy, not effort.

And I saw him on the grass, with our children. Elsa ran toward him, full of fire, full of joy. She loved him, adored him, challenged him. She laughed the way little girls do when they are entirely safe.

Elijah stayed close to me, soft and wise beyond his years. He watched from the edge, hand in mine, eyes full of worlds. He didn’t need noise to belong. He belonged by being.

Together, we were a flame turned family. A vision of what love could be when it’s not distorted by fear. And though that door is closed now, its beauty still lives in me.

The children would come to me in vision every time I called. And sometimes, they would call me first. Elsa, especially always wanting to be seen. They wanted me to know them, study them, remember them as real. Not just spirits, but children with light and laughter already forming in their souls.

Elsa, long curly hair, light eyes, and a smile that could melt stone. Bold, wild, loving, unafraid. She came with stories, dances, questions, joy.

Elijah, quiet, gentle, always watching. His deep, wise eyes made me feel calm just by looking at him. He was the silence between breaths, the wisdom that didn’t need to speak.

I miss them. I ache with a love that has nowhere to land. I know I can still call them in spirit. I know they’ll still come. But I can’t bear the pain of having to let them go again and again. So instead, I keep their memory alive from afar. Not in grief, but in reverence. In honor.

Yes, when the contract between us broke, they left.

They did not leave because I was broken. They left because the container was. Because he wouldn’t rise. Because he never knew what his role truly was. Not as a partner. But as a masculine flame in a sacred union.

He didn’t know that his presence was supposed to be the temple. That his devotion was meant to anchor the light. That his job was not to be perfect, but to hold. To protect. To meet fire with ground. To choose me. And keep choosing.

He didn't know. And maybe he still doesn't. And so the timeline dissolved. Not by my choice. But because timelines like that do not stay open in the absence of action.

Now I am here. Not with him. Not with them. But with silence. With the ache of a future that almost was.

And from that emptiness, I am struggling to create. Because emptiness is not the absence of meaning, it's the space after something sacred has left.

But I know this is the beginning of freedom. Even if it hurts. Even if it feels like I’m building with no tools, no plan, no guarantee. Because the only thing more painful than letting go, would be staying in a vision where only I was awake.

Elsa. Elijah.
Thank you for visiting.
Thank you for loving me enough to go when the time closed.
I honor the timeline you came from.
I release the one you didn’t get to enter.
And I begin again.

Not as a wife. Not as a mother.
But as flame.
Only flame.

Some futures don’t unfold — they call.

Not as fantasy.

Not as longing.

But as memory from the other side of time.

Sometimes we don’t dream of a life, we remember it. We feel its shape, its rhythm, its breath… before it ever begins.

This is how certain timelines arrive: not through logic, but through soul recognition. And when that recognition occurs, something ancient moves. Two flames meet, and the future leans in. A timeline activates — not by choice, but by law.

This is the story of one such timeline.

A future that visited. A love that opened the door.

Children who came in light and left in reverence.

And the sacred ache of a life that almost was

***