Title: your voice it sounds familiar
Summary: Bitterblue has dreams of a life she doesn't remember living. Reincarnation!fic.

The dream that I have is always the same...
Hey, do you remember me the way that I remember you?
~War, Emmy the Great

Sometimes, she dreams about castles and maze and bridges and wakes up with a crushing sadness sitting on her chest. On those days, she throws herself into house chores and farm work with more vigor, determined to make herself useful, to fight the helplessness she feels in some of her dreams.

"Bitterblue," her mother calls from downstairs, "could you tend the chickens?"

Bitterblue manages to wrestle her hair into two loose, messy braids, and heads down the stairs. Her father is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking milk and reading the paper, but from the dirt on his boots she knows he'll return to the fields soon. She grabs a piece of toast and a basket, pausing to let her mother kiss her on the cheek, before heading to the barn.

She hums as she feeds them and checks their nests for eggs. The chickens' feathers tickle the sides of her calves as she moves among them. It's a quiet, peaceful life, for the most part, and thirteen-year-old Bitterblue has grown quite fond of the routine.

Upon emerging from the barn, she stops. A few yards away, on the other side of the fence, she can see a boy in overalls. He slouches slightly, a piece of straw held between his teeth, but straightens when he sees her. She hasn't seen him before, doesn't remember spotting his face in the dusty one-room schoolhouse. But when their eyes meet, something stirs in her stomach, like a colt waking from its sleep.

The boy frowns slightly as he studies her, as if trying to figure out a puzzle. He has deep blue eyes set in a suntanned, freckled face. (She thinks of the color purple, then wonders why.)

Bitterblue snaps out of her trance and manages to raise her voice. "H-hello? Can I help you with something?"

The boy shakes his head slowly, then turns and walks away, hands shoved in his pockets. How strange, Bitterblue thinks, and starts to turn away as well. She pauses. The boy, his back still turned to her, has raised a hand, and although it could be a gesture of farewell Bitterblue imagines that maybe he means, See you sometime soon.

(She remembers: warm hands, warm breath, two heads bent over a small gold watch.)

That night, she dreams of a rooftop and a purple-eyed thief.