Disclaimer

Refractions of Her Soul is a work of fiction born from imagination, emotion, and a deep curiosity about what it means to live—and to live many lives. All characters, names, events, and places in this story are entirely fictional or used in a fictional context. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, or real-life events is purely coincidental and unintentional.

This story explores a wide range of emotional and psychological themes, including identity, emotional fragmentation, mental health, trauma, alternate realities, and the long-lasting consequences of the choices we make. It touches on the uncertainty of self, the roads not taken, and the inner struggles that sometimes go unnoticed by the outside world. While the story does contain moments of hope and transformation, it also delves into darker, more vulnerable aspects of the human experience. As such, some content may be emotionally sensitive or triggering. Themes such as grief, anxiety, self-doubt, existential confusion, isolation, and internal conflict are present throughout. Reader discretion is advised, and I encourage all readers to take care of their emotional well-being first and foremost.

The narrative is intended for mature audiences and aims to provoke thought and emotion, not to provide psychological, philosophical, or scientific guidance. The portrayal of parallel lives, soul fragments, and metaphysical experiences is purely fictional and imaginative. These elements are not based on real-world science, spiritual beliefs, or professional understanding. Rather, they are symbolic and meant to explore “what if” questions through a creative and emotional lens.

As the writer of this story, I want to share a sincere note from the heart: Refractions of Her Soul was written with passion, but not with perfection. I am still learning and growing every time I write. English may not be my first language—or even if it is, I understand that writing is an art that constantly evolves. You may notice occasional typos, grammar mistakes, awkward phrasing, or inconsistencies. If you do, please know it was not due to carelessness, but because this story is still in progress—and so am I.

I'm currently still working on the first chapter, and this is just the beginning of what I hope will be a much deeper, richer journey. If you catch any errors or think something could be improved, please feel free to kindly correct me. Every comment, no matter how small, helps me grow and means more than you know. Your support, patience, and encouragement are truly appreciated.

Above all, thank you for giving this story a chance. Whether you connect with Elira’s struggle, her search for self, or the mystery of her many parallel lives, I hope her journey speaks to a part of you. We all carry different versions of ourselves inside, and this story is one way of exploring that truth.

With humility and gratitude,

— matchayvanielatte

Just know that everyone’s writing is terrible, until it’s not. No one’s stuff is right immediately; you gotta work it, refine it, shape it, and spend time with it. It’s a relationship between you and what comes from you. – Ava DuVernay

Elira woke to the sound of screaming.

Her breath caught before her eyes even opened, the sharp tang of smoke burning down her throat like fire in liquid form. It clung to her lungs, heavy and acrid, making every gasp feel like swallowing ash. The air was hot—too hot—pressing against her skin with the searing weight of an open flame.

Somewhere nearby, wood splintered. Somewhere farther away, something—someone—exploded into another round of desperate, guttural cries.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. She sat up fast, her heart slamming against her ribs like a trapped bird, wings beating frantically against bone. Her gaze darted in every direction, seeking—no, hunting—for exits, for shadows, for places to disappear.

And that was when she realized—

She wasn’t in her apartment.

She wasn’t even in her own world.

She was crouched low behind the blackened skeleton of a building that looked like it had once been made of stone, now charred and brittle under the weight of the fire consuming it. The night sky was not the black she knew—it pulsed orange, flickering as though it were alive, breathing with the rhythm of the flames swallowing the city.

Gunshots cracked in the distance—sharp, staccato bursts that sliced through the air with vicious precision. Each one rattled through her, syncing perfectly with a heartbeat she didn’t own.

Her hands were trembling. No—someone else’s hands were trembling. She could feel the grit embedded in the skin, see the grime ground deep into calloused lines. They weren’t her hands—too scarred, too thin, the nails jagged as if broken from clawing at stone. In them, she clutched a small leather satchel tight against her chest, her knuckles pale beneath the soot.

She had never seen this place before.

But she remembered it.

The realization twisted in her gut like a knife.

The moment she tried to shift her weight, her body—this body—moved with a speed and certainty that startled her. She darted into the shadows without thinking, slipping into a side alley littered with broken glass and half-buried shell casings. Her bare feet—or were they booted?—hit the pavement with the muted precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. She knew which alleys would keep her hidden from watchful eyes. She knew the routes where the sound of footsteps wouldn’t carry. She even knew where snipers lay in wait atop crumbling rooftops, rifles glinting faintly in the firelight.

And she knew the name of the boy whose voice was screaming her name through the chaos—though she had never met him.

“Elira!”

Her pulse stumbled mid-beat. The sound of it was so familiar and yet so impossibly foreign, a voice that had no right to know her name.

She risked a glance over her shoulder.

Somewhere beyond the curtain of smoke, she caught the shadow of movement—fast, urgent, heading toward her. He was tall, wiry, his clothes torn and smeared with ash. His voice carried desperation, a raw edge that dug into her chest like claws.

That voice didn’t belong here.

That voice belonged to another world.

And then—

The ground buckled.

Not an earthquake—not exactly—but something deeper, stranger. The air itself seemed to twist, thickening until it shimmered like heat mirages on a summer road. Her vision rippled at the edges. For half a heartbeat, the city bled away, replaced by another scene entirely—impossible, fragile, and bright.

She saw herself.

Not this soot-streaked, sweat-slick version crouched in the shadows, but herself—barefoot, standing in a gown of pale silk that spilled like liquid moonlight around her feet. A violin was poised in her hands, bow drawn across the strings in perfect stillness, the music frozen mid-breath.

They locked eyes across the impossible gap—two Eliras, staring at each other from different realities.

The other her looked startled, too, as if she could feel the crack between their worlds.

The floor beneath Elira’s feet split—not with sound, but with sensation, as though her very sense of self were being pulled in two directions at once.

And then—

The burning city was gone.

The world snapped into blinding light. Stage lights. They blazed down on her, so bright they carved halos into her vision. Applause swelled like a wave crashing against her ears—thunderous, relentless, suffocating. She could feel her heartbeat shift, no longer pounding with fear but racing with the adrenaline of performance.

Her fingers—no longer scarred and grimy—were slender, their tips hardened with the smooth calluses of years of practice. They moved with graceful certainty, drawing the bow across the strings to release the final, ringing note.

She could smell rosin and polished wood, the faint perfume of flowers tossed onto the stage.

Elira nearly dropped the violin.

Because she knew—knew with a bone-deep certainty—that she had just stolen a moment from a life that wasn’t hers.

She didn’t just see it. She felt it—down to the smallest breath, the smallest muscle twitch, as if she had been there all along.

As if both lives had been hers from the start.

The applause roared on. Lights burned hotter. The violin grew heavier in her hands. But beneath it all—beneath the veil of silk and music—she could still hear the echo of her name being screamed in the burning city, the voice cutting through the air like a desperate plea she couldn’t answer.

And she had no idea which world she truly belonged to.

To Be Continue..