This is my personal experience of remembering a past life.
It didn’t feel like “remembering.” It felt like an update.
One day in May, I had been thinking that maybe I had already graduated from “Gyu Walks” and “Gyu Drives,” and that those experiences had only been something meant to help me grow my ability to believe.
Then Gyu invited me.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Oh. That’s rare.
I went out by subway. After leaving the station and walking a little, I came across a large hospital. For some reason, I felt nervous.
I went into the hospital lobby and walked down the corridor that led to the parking lot. Along the corridor, there was a section displaying the history of the hospital—photos and materials from the late 1800s to the early 1900s.
That was where I suddenly fell into “Taro Library mode.” My stomach tightened hard with a deep “gyuuuuu,” my ears rang sharply, my pores prickled, and my heart started pounding.
I looked at the photos one by one—an early ambulance, a sketch of the old hospital building, black-and-white photos of nurses.
Wait. This is bad. This feels different from usual.
I had gotten fairly used to “feeling strange” by then, but today’s was different again. Separate from the physical sensations, there were strong emotions attached to it—happy, sad, longing, painful, bittersweet. There were too many emotions, spinning all at once. I couldn’t keep up. My head felt like a storm.
There were photos of old hospital rooms, photos of doctors, and then a photo of a chapel appeared. That seemed to be the switch—or maybe the signal that the update had finished.
Before that moment, I had thought that “remembering a past life” would feel like actually remembering. But it didn’t. It was an “update.” At least, that’s what it felt like to me.
The moment I saw the chapel photo, it felt like the update was complete. Before that, I knew nothing about that past life. Afterward, it was simply there in my mind—as something I knew.
It felt disturbing.
In that past life, I was a nurse. I don’t know which hospital it was.
Someone in Taro’s family—maybe his older sister—became sick or injured, and I went to Taro’s house to take care of her. I don’t remember whether I commuted or stayed there.
I fell in love with Taro. It was completely across social classes. And I think I was probably older than him.
The love that began in spring ended at the end of summer. I don’t know whether it was the same year or a different year.
At the end, I rode in a carriage with Taro. When I got out, he gently kissed my forehead.
“When we are reborn next time…”
That’s what he said in that final moment.
After that, I married another man, gave birth to twins. The older twin boy fell into a pond and died when he was still a child.
I feel like she blamed herself—thinking that it was punishment for marrying while still loving someone else.
Oh my.
Taro-chan.
I remembered.
Fragments of scenes remained in my mind. I left the hospital, walked back to the station, and as I rode the subway home, I went over each memory one by one.
There were ordinary moments too—being scolded by a doctor, a winter morning when I was about to be late for work. And every time the final carriage scene appeared, I felt a warmth rise in my chest and couldn’t help but smile a little.
A completely suspicious lady on the train.
I wonder what Taro is doing now.
Maybe he’s relaxing up there.