Aged white marble from a Cretan palace

Soon after my return, in a small Chicago kitchen, my sister introduced me to a gifted psychic and healer known for her psychometric abilities. I handed her a fragment of aged white marble from a Cretan palace adorned with mosaics of bull dancers. Though not a powerful stone, it held potent memories.
As she held the marble, she withdrew into herself, then met my eyes. She revealed that the stone had called to me because I had once lived there—amidst tragedy and a love story. At that moment, a tangible presence filled the room. The kitchen door swung open, followed by the screen door, and a swirling, smoky figure emerged. A hand reached out, seeking forgiveness.

Instantly, a vision gripped me—I saw a raging fire, thick black smoke, and felt myself choking. The palace burned, set aflame by the woman I had loved—Persiphae. Desperate, I ran through the halls, calling her name until the smoke consumed me. I had died there.

Now, in this kitchen, the stone had become a gateway for Persiphae’s spirit, pleading for absolution. Overwhelmed, yet feeling her love after millennia, I let go of the bitterness and forgave her. As I did, the scent of lavender filled the air, wrapping around me like a blessing.

For a week, the fragrance lingered, a sign of her lingering presence. Yet, young and unsettled, I eventually asked her to leave. Though moved by the encounter, living with a spirit shadowing my every step was unnerving. I was very young then.

From “The Pattern: An Exploration of Consciousness”