Chapter Text
It took Bella longer than she expected to grow restless in Forks. It was not the same restlessness her mother had experienced; she did not want to leave forever and never look back. But she missed the city. Mostly she missed going to second-hand bookstores, antique shops, and record stores. In Phoenix, Bella had always kept herself busy in some way. Too much quiet time meant more space for memories - and for flashbacks.
So, when she didn’t have her nose buried in a book, she was visiting museums, attending concerts and finding all sorts of events - the more out there then better. She once went to a Japanese art exhibit entirely about instant ramen noodles. It had been strange and wonderful.
Forks was depressingly small in comparison. Aside from a grocery shop and Newton’s sporting goods store, there was almost nothing to see. Bella hadn’t checked if there was something more happening in La Push but she doubted it.
“I want to go to Port Angeles,” she declared at dinner. Charlie blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intensity in her voice.
“Why?” he asked.
“I want to go shopping,”
He gave her a look.
“Not for clothes,” she added.
“Good. I was just about to ask you if you were an imposter,” Charlie smirked. “You have the same fashion sense as your old man,”
Bella glanced down at her faded flannel shirt, then at his matching one in a different color.
She only sighed in response.
“It’s fine by me,” her father said after a moment of silence. “Just keep your phone on you, and come back before it gets dark.”
“Great,” Bella smiled. “I’ll go tomorrow.”
“Are you going alone?” Charlie asked, aiming for nonchalance, but Bella could easily detect the curiosity beneath. For a cop, he was surprisingly easy to read.
Her thoughts flicked briefly to Rosalie. Things were better between them than before—but that didn’t mean the tension had vanished. They were still walking on eggshells, tiptoeing around truths neither of them was ready to say aloud.
“Yes,” she answered finally. “I need a bit of alone time.”
“And you go to the city for that?” Charlie raised a skeptical brow. “I usually go fishing.”
“To each their own, I guess,” Bella shrugged. Charlie hummed thoughtfully.
The idea of escaping Forks, even for just half a day, settled something inside Bella.
Port Angeles wasn’t exactly bustling, but after weeks in Forks, it felt like a metropolis. The streets were quiet, dotted with a few sleepy storefronts and cafes, yet there was enough movement to remind her of the outside world. Still, it was nothing like Phoenix—no endless highways, no traffic jams, no faint hum of a city that never quite fell asleep. Here, things paused. People strolled. It was quaint, in a way she didn’t hate.
The first thing she did was to get a decent cup of coffee, not the cheap brand Charlie bought. Still, even that was better than the tasteless goop the hospital provided.
Sipping happily on her cappuccino, she headed down to a side street, away from the main shopping strip. She stopped in front of a faded old sign that read Auntie Jo’s Oddities. An antique junk shop.
Bella smiled as this was exactly what she had been looking for.
Bella wasn’t a hoarder, despite her mother’s claims. She just liked being surrounded by old, forgotten things—especially when they came with a bit of mystery. Her parents chalked it up to be a character quirk, but Bella knew better. Even though she tried not to be, Bella had always been a bit obsessed with the past. She doubted that would ever change.
A soft chime above her head sounded as she stepped inside. The air was thick with dust, and something else—musk and memories, she thought.
Like most antique shops Bella had visited through the years, it was completely packed with stuff. Despite the chaos there seemed to be some order, as the space held different sections. Bella didn’t know where to start. Her eyes roamed and she spotted an old glass cabinet. As she drew close, she saw it was full of vintage spyglasses. She blinked as a flash of memory came to her—
A vast ocean. A large wooden ship.
The sharp scent of salt. The cries of circling gulls.
And then, just as quickly, she was back.
That was the one downside of junk shops. Too many triggers. Too many fragments of lives she'd only half-remembered. Thankfully, most were faint—just imprints, a tug in her chest, or the eerie certainty that she’d touched something like this before.
“Greetings,” Bella jumped in surprise and turned her head. An old woman was sitting behind a desk, trying to hide a smile.
“Hello,” Bella said with as much dignity as she could manage. The amused glint in the old woman’s eyes told her how much that was working.
“Welcome to my store,” Bella almost had to strain to hear the voice, it was so quiet.
“Thanks,” she smiled. “I love it already,”
“Good,” the old woman looked pleased. “Have a look now, dearie. You’ll find unexpected treasures here. I don’t know where most of the wares hail from.”
“What do you mean?” Bella asked, confused. “Isn’t this your store?”
“Ah yes, but most items are shipped over from other antique shops and deceased estates from all over,” the old woman smiled. Bella’s curiosity piqued.
“Thanks,” she said politely and began to browse.
The following two hours were spent walking around and choosing carefully what to bring home. Her haul consisted of a golden ouroboros bracelet, an ugly statue of a toad that she loved but knew Charlie would hate, and two books: one on Quileute Legends, which made her think about Jacob’s stories, and the other on ancient Egyptian healing methods, which she was seriously considering giving to Carlisle. The man must have a birthday sometime.
She found the third book by pure accident, tucked away in between Hamlet and a booklet of Household Cleaning Tips from the 60s.
A Quiet Rebellion, written by R. Hale, published by Bellwright Press.
She knew that book - the author, the publishing company. It had been hers and -
Bella sucked in a sharp breath as memories hit her like a whiplash.
The scent of ink and old paper.
The dim glow of an oil lamp on mahogany.
The creak of carriage wheels and the clop of horses on cobblestone.
“Here it is.”
Rosalie dropped the manuscript in front of her with a soft thud.
“I think you’ll like this one.” That familiar, heartbreaking smile made an appearance.
Bella couldn’t help but smile back. Rosalie’s good moods were always infectious.
“What is it now? Have you grown weary of poetry?” Bella quirked an eyebrow.
“Weary of poetry? My dear Isabella, you must surely have me mistaken for someone else if that treacherous thought passed through your pretty mind.” Rosalie smirked.
“Alas, this is yet again poetry. The poems are not as naughty as my previous collection,” she added, and Bella’s cheeks burned at the reminder.
“I still cannot believe you made me publish that,” Bella muttered as she picked up the manuscript and began to read. A faint sketch of a lotus curled in the margin, almost lost among the scribbles of ink, catching her attention for a heartbeat.
“I did not make you do anything, darling,” Rosalie sank into an armchair by Bella’s desk. “You did that on your own volition.”
“The decision was made under duress,” Bella huffed, her fingers lingering on the delicate drawing for a moment longer.
“It’s called an orgasm, Isabella,” Rosalie drawled, laughing when Bella blushed harder.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s what you said that night when—“
“Wait!” Bella cut in, both to prevent Rosalie from finishing her thought and because she was genuinely surprised. “This is not like your usual work.”
“I daresay not,” Rosalie’s smile turned dangerous.
“Fighting for women’s rights? Criticizing the laws? Rosalie—?”
“Where is that rebellious spirit I’ve come to know so well? This is the start of something new, Isabella.”
Bella looked at her carefully crafted nonchalant mask, finding the cracks beneath. The smile was a bit too strained, and the violet eyes were too bright.
“I’m not objecting. It’s just if we get caught…” Bella trailed off. Rosalie nodded.
“Then… let’s not.”
“Have you found something dearie?” Bella snapped back into the present.
The old shop owner was staring at her with a concerned look. Her eyes shifted to the book in Bella’s hands.
“Ah yes, this is a good book,”
“You’ve read it?” Bella asked, raising an eyebrow despite herself.
“Oh yes, it was quite revolutionary for the time. On top of that it was written and published by women,” the old woman said conspiratorially. “There were many things changing in the Victorian Era, with the industrial revolution but there was vast space for improvement, especially considering women’s rights. This book was a brave commentary and criticism of the institution as a whole,”
“Yeah. That’s very brave,” Bella’s voice was quiet.
“It’s a damn shame what happened afterwards,” the old woman sighed. Bella swallowed heavily. Her grip on the book tightened as another memory fought its way to the surface. She clenched her jaw and pushed it away.
Not now. Not ever.
“I’ll take it,” Bella said before the woman could say anything else.
“Good. It makes my old heart happy when young people take interest in the past,” the old woman turned to walk back.
“A bit too much,” Bella muttered to herself.
“What’s that dearie?”
“Nothing,” Bella plastered a smile on her face as she put her newfound treasures on the counter. The old woman commented on each item as she round them up, but Bella’s thoughts were miles away.
It wasn’t only the memory itself that shook her up. It was the fact that she had found physical evidence of her past lives. It wasn’t all in her head.
It was both comforting and unsettling.
Could this book jog Rosalie’s memory? Might she remember something, too?
The memory had also been longer and more detailed than others. What did that mean?
Bella left Port Angeles after her brief shopping trip. She did not even go to the Museum or the record store as she had planned. Instead, she went home with the sole purpose of crawling into bed and trying to forget.
The book lay untouched in her bag for almost a week. She attended school and worked her shifts at the hospital, but she was distracted the entire time. Everyone around her noticed. Charlie and Carlisle both watched her worriedly, offering silent support in their own ways. She was grateful to have them, but she also felt the need for some space - at least that’s what she told herself.
Even Rosalie started to grow concerned, which only made Bella feel guilty. She had been avoiding Rosalie for the last few days, still thinking about the implications of the memories and of the book itself. It was proof she needed, but still Bella hesitated.
It was in the late afternoon in the school library when she finally fished out the book from her backpack. She stared at it for almost a whole minute, running a thumb along the spine, A Quiet Rebellion.
Bella took in a deep breath in preparation and finally cracked it open.
The preface was printed in elegant serif—dense and academic, exactly what she expected from a Victorian-era critique. But just above the block of text, nestled in the margin like a whisper between the lines, was a small scrawl.
Her breath caught.
It was written in ink faded with age, the handwriting looping and sharp. Feminine, practiced. Familiar.
I.S.—
To the one who taught me rebellion need not be loud to be dangerous.
—R.H.
Bella stared at it, heart thudding. The world around her dulled—no voices, no library hum, just that name.
I.S.
R.H.
She traced the letters with trembling fingers, not quite daring to believe what she already knew.
It was real.
“I didn’t know you could read,” Bella jumped.
“Wow, sorry I didn’t mean to startle you,” Rosalie’s amused sarcasm was replaced with something sincere and apologetic.
“No… it’s fine, I was just lost in thought,” Bella offered her a smile. “What’s up?”
“What are you reading?” Rosalie glanced down at the book in Bella’s hand and stilled.
Many different emotions flickered across her face, something unnamed which Bella longed to interpret. What was going through her mind? Did she remember something?
“Where did you get this?” Rosalie’s voice was intense.
“In a junk shop,” Bella hated how squeaky it came out. She cleared her throat. “The shop owner recommended it,” Not untrue but not the whole truth.
“I see,” Rosalie gave her an unreadable look. “Is it any good?” she tried for nonchalance but the waver in her voice betrayed her.
“Are we really doing this?” Bella muttered, exasperated at their dance.
“What?” Rosalie’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Look, I’m just going to ask,” she had to know. Bella was tired of this guessing game.
“Ask me what?” surprise shifted into something guarded.
“Do you remember?” Bella’s heart thundered. Rosalie’s eyes drifted momentarily down to her chest, as if she could hear the heartbeat. Then their eyes met. Golden—not violet, but still familiar.
“Remember what?”
“Me,” Bella whispered. She swallowed her nerves. “Do you remember me?”
“I don’t-“
“Rose, please.” The plea slipped out raw, her voice betraying the desperation she hated to show. Vulnerability was never easy—but with Rosalie, it had always felt safe. It always would.
There was a long moment of silence, then –
“Remember you?” Rosalie scoffed. “Bella, I’ve seen you every day this week.”
But her voice wavered—and she wouldn’t meet Bella’s eyes.
“You do, don’t you?” Bella pressed, shaken at the realization. “At least parts of it,”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Rosalie’s voice echoed around the near silent space. Other people were staring at them now.
“Look,” Rosalie lowered her tone. “I don’t actually know what you’re talking about, you’re being pretty vague,”
“Do you feel like we’ve met before? Like I’m someone you used to know?” Bella asked, as if it were that simple. “No lies remember,”
Rosalie’s breath caught and something unreadable crossed her expression.
“Yes.” The admittance slipped out. Bella’s heart threatened to break free from her chest.
“You…do?” Bella stuttered.
If that were true, she didn’t know what to do with herself. Despite quietly hoping, the possibility of Rosalie remembering seemed so unlikely that a massive part of her had dismissed the notion.
Rosalie blinked, startled by her own answer. Her mouth parted, but no words came. For once, she seemed at a loss.
Bella waited, breath held.
“I don’t know what it means,” Rosalie finally said. Her voice was quieter now, almost raw. “But… when I look at you, it feels like something’s missing. Like I forgot something important. And seeing that book—your book—”
She broke off, shaking her head as if the truth were just out of reach.
Bella stepped closer. “That’s okay. You don’t have to figure it out now.” We have time, Bella whispered in the corner of her mind.
Their eyes locked again, and this time, Rosalie didn’t look away.
“I just want you to know,” Bella added, “I remember enough for both of us.”
Rosalie didn't speak. But her fingers brushed against Bella’s—light as a breath, brief as a thought. Then she stood up and walked away, leaving Bella staring after her with a heart full of hope and questions.
It wasn’t a confession, not yet—but Bella knew a promise when she felt one.
She opened the book at random, its pages worn and delicate. Her eyes caught on a single line:
"The first act of courage is sometimes the one no one notices but yourself."
For a heartbeat, the words were hers alone, a secret affirmation to carry forward. She let her fingers rest on them a moment longer, as if claiming them before the world could.
Not all rebellions needed an audience.
To be continued...