"System."
I waited.
Nothing appeared.
No blue screen.
No mechanical voice.
No glowing text.
…Of course.
So much for easy mode.
I lay still, staring at the cream-colored ceiling. A chandelier hung above me, its design unfamiliar yet elegant. The bed beneath me was soft, warm—real.
This wasn't a dream.
I clenched my small hand. It responded immediately.
A child's body.
Two years old, if what the maid said was true.
I tried to speak.
"Ah…"
Only a soft, useless sound came out.
Right. That would take time.
At least this world wasn't lying to me. No shortcuts. No miracles handed over for free.
I could live with that.
The door opened quietly.
The woman in the purple dress stepped inside.
My mother.
She looked to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. Long dark-violet hair flowed smoothly down her back, neat but not overly styled. A few loose strands framed her face, softening features that carried quiet authority.
Her amethyst-colored eyes were gentle, yet observant—eyes that had known responsibility for a long time. She wasn't fragile. High cheekbones, a straight nose, and a firm jawline gave her beauty a sense of strength rather than delicacy.
She carried herself with effortless poise.
Not royalty—but close enough to power that people listened when she spoke.
She walked to my bedside and brushed her fingers through my hair.
"He's awake," she said softly, smiling. "Look at him… always so quiet."
If only you knew.
She lifted me into her arms with practiced ease. My body relaxed instantly, trusting her without question. The warmth felt familiar in a way logic couldn't explain.
And that was when my thoughts drifted backward.
My real mother.
Her tired smile when I came home late.
The way she always asked if I'd eaten—even when she knew the answer.
My father.
Quiet. Reliable. The kind of man who never said much, but was always there when it mattered.
And my sisters.
Smarter than me. Stronger than me.
Always teasing me, always pushing me to do better.
They would still be living their lives.
And I was gone.
The realization struck deeper than the pain of the accident ever had.
My chest tightened.
I wanted to call out.
To tell them I was alive.
To apologize for being lazy.
For pretending to have dreams instead of chasing them.
But my mouth wouldn't move.
No words came.
Tears welled up before I could stop them.
"…Oh," my new mother whispered, gently wiping my cheek. "Did I hurt you?"
She held me closer, rocking me softly.
"It's alright," she murmured. "I'm here."
Her words were kind.
But they weren't meant for the people I was crying for.
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the tears back.
Crying wouldn't bring them back.
Later, when the room grew quiet, I lay awake.
I felt my body more clearly then.
Small, but healthy.
Not frail. Not chubby.
My arms and legs were short, my movements clumsy, but there was strength beneath it—carefully fed, carefully raised.
I caught my reflection in a polished metal surface near the bed.
A child stared back at me.
Ash-black hair, soft and slightly messy, refusing to stay neatly combed. Under the light, faint silver strands caught my eye—subtle enough to be mistaken for reflection.
My face was smooth and youthful, but not dull. Straight nose. Defined brows. A balance that hinted at what I might look like in the future.
And my eyes—
Grey.
Deep. Calm.
Too calm for a child this young.
They didn't wander aimlessly. They observed.
Watched.
Listened.
I barely recognized myself.
I won't forget you.
Not my parents.
Not my sisters.
Not the life I failed to live properly.
This second life didn't erase the first.
It was built on top of it.
And that meant something.
If I was given another chance—
Then I owed it to both worlds to live honestly this time.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
I observed quietly. Learned slowly.
This wasn't a hospital. It was an estate—wide halls, servants moving with discipline, guards stationed at entrances. A medieval world.
Magic?
Uncertain.
I tried again.
"System."
Still nothing.
So there was no guide.
Fine.
I had lived once without direction.
I wouldn't repeat that mistake.
One evening, while sitting on the floor surrounded by wooden toys, I felt something.
A faint pull deep within my chest.
Not pain.
Not warmth.
A presence.
I focused gently, not forcing it.
The sensation responded.
So this world had rules—just not ones handed out freely.
Good.
Rules could be learned.
I let the feeling fade.
Not yet.
I had time.
As I looked at my reflection once more, those calm grey eyes stared back at me.
"…I'll live properly this time," I promised silently.
A nobody.
Given a second chance.