The trees, like black, bony hands reach up toward the night sky, almost desperate in their pursuit of the light. Perhaps they seek not the burn of the sun, I think, but to grasp onto the moon, the white orb cool in their palms, milky on their bark. The frozen stars above seem to sigh down upon the earth, dusting the ground with crystals of frost, the very breath of the stars. The woods are silent.

My feet are bare, pale toes lined with mud, leaves plastered to the soles like paint on a canvas. The forest floor is crisp and icy, my toes fracturing the frozen soil, cracking the thin twigs like bones as I tread slowly through the dark. My nightgown fans out behind me as I walk. I am a shadow, a ghost, an angel.

 I am a forgotten angel, I decide. The one who God neglected to give wings.

The clearing is ahead, the dense branches of the tress curving around it protectively, arms shielding it from harm. I break through the branches, sticks catching my gown, tearing at the fabric until I relent and pull the dress from my body. My naked skin hardly reacts to the cold.

The wind clears my hair from my eyes as I look up. The circle of ice is soullessly black. I approach reverently, pausing at the edge, admiring the shivering trails of ice that run from the frozen pond up toward the trees. My toes brush over the ice, testing. I take a step. The ice cracks sharply, like an egg dropped on a tile floor, spider webs creeping out from beneath my toes. Another step. A dull purple glow awakens deep under the ice, growing stronger for each step I take. There are oak leaves caught beneath the surface, flat and perfect, just out of reach. I broaden my stride, stepping between them like lily pads, smiling as they pulse gold at the pressure of my feet, darkening again as I leave them behind. I reach the center of the pond, the purple light directly beneath my feet. And there it is, beneath the ice.

The heart-shaped pocket watch is bronze and gleaming, its gears spinning beneath the thick glass cover, two hands ticking rhythmically between the roman numerals. Painfully, I get down onto my knees. My brittle fingernails scrape at the ice, scrape until my fingers bleed, until my nails are cracked or missing. This is the small price I pay.

The watch sits heavy in my hands. As I look down upon it, I gaze at myself, see the thin, wrinkled skin that hangs from my arms, the blue veins that cling tight to my bones, the spots of age that decorate my hands. I can see my face reflected in the glass. Hollow cheeks, gaunt blue eyes, silvery-white hair. I press the watch to my breast, warm and smooth, feeling the thick, healthy heartbeat pulse against my skin. It is odd and unnerving, echoing in the hollow of my empty chest.  After all these years without it, even my own heart has become unfamiliar.

 I stand, making sure I am centered above the purple light. My fingers find the dial at the top of the pocket watch, and I pinch it gently between my forefinger and thumb. I take a deep breath, the cold air filling my shriveled lungs, and turn the dial to the left ten times, once for every ten lifetimes I have lived. The purple light turns gold, and the ice melts beneath my feet, caving lower and lower until it finally breaks. I plunge feet-first into the water, immersed in gold. My skin hums and thickens, my hair grows dark and long, my body becomes strong. As I sink deeper, I open my eyes and look up through the water and ice to the stars. I have lived one hundred lifetimes. I wonder how many lifetimes they live to see.

This is my rebirth.