The Loneliness of Remembering

There is a quiet cost to remembering.

Not remembering facts. Not remembering dates or names or childhood stories. But remembering something that feels older than this life.

There are moments - in dreams, in conversations, in inexplicable pulls toward places or people - when something inside you nods before your mind catches up. And when that happens, the world doesn’t always know what to do with you.

The Harbinger was born from that tension. Sophia carries a memory she cannot explain. Ann carries knowledge she cannot share. Both women walk through rooms where others are living comfortably within accepted narratives…while they feel something deeper pressing at the edges.

Awakening isn’t fireworks. It’s often isolation.

It’s being the one who notices the pattern first. The one who senses the shift before it becomes visible. The one who feels the crack in the foundation long before it widens.

There is a particular loneliness in holding something sacred before it has language. And yet…that loneliness is also a signal.

It asks:
Will you trust what you know, even if you cannot prove it?
Will you stay steady when others are unsettled by your certainty?
Will you carry the ember long enough for it to become light?

The women in The Harbinger do not not awaken loudly.

They awaken quietly. Layer by layer. Through friendship. Through dreams. Through small acts of courage.

And perhaps that is the most honest part of the story.

Because awakening does not make you extraordinary. It makes you responsible. Responsible for what you’ve seen. Responsible for how you move forward. Responsible for how gently you hold others who are not yet ready.

If you’ve ever felt ahead of something…
ahead of a conversation,
ahead of a truth,
ahead of your own life…

you are not alone.

Some remembering simply arrives before the rest of the world catches up.