Chapter 11
Two years passed.
Dad grew stronger every day. He went back to school, finished his degree, and started working at a nonprofit that helped trafficking survivors rebuild their lives.
He was good at it. He understood their pain in a way no one else could.
Grandma Rose and Grandpa Thomas watched over us with quiet devotion. Aunt Claire taught me how to braid hair and ride a bicycle — adapted with training wheels for my bad leg.
I went to school for the first time. Real school, with other children and recess and art class. It was overwhelming and wonderful.
Sometimes kids stared at my limp. A boy once asked why I walked funny. Before I could answer, a girl named Sophie shoved him and said, "She walks fine, you dummy!"
Sophie became my first real friend.
...
At seven years old, I started to feel something strange. A lightness in my body. A transparency at the edges.
It started small — moments where I looked at my hand and thought the sunlight passed through it a bit too easily. Times when I caught my reflection and my outline seemed softer, less solid.
I didn't understand at first. But slowly, a quiet certainty grew inside me.
I wasn't meant to stay.
This second life — this rebirth — wasn't permanent. It was borrowed time. A chance to do what I couldn't do before. And now that the mission was complete, the debt was paid.
I was fading.
Not quickly. Not painfully. Just... gradually. Like morning mist when the sun comes up.
I told no one. What would I even say?
Instead, I spent every moment soaking in my family. I memorized Dad's laugh — full and real now, nothing like the broken sounds he made at the estate. I memorized Grandma Rose's hugs, Grandpa Thomas's terrible jokes, Aunt Claire's singing voice.
I memorized everything, holding it close like treasure.
...
Dad noticed something was different.
"Lily, you've been so quiet lately," he said one Sunday, kneeling in front of me. "Is something wrong? Are you having bad dreams again?"
I threw my arms around his neck. "Nothing's wrong, Daddy. I just love you so much."
He held me tight and laughed softly. "I love you too, baby girl. More than anything in this world."
That night, after he tucked me in, I lay in the dark and looked at my hands. In the moonlight, I could see the bedsheet through them.
I wasn't afraid. Not really. I'd died once before, and it hadn't been so bad.
But I was sad. So deeply, achingly sad. Because this life — this real, beautiful life — was everything I'd ever wanted. And I wouldn't get to keep it.
I pressed my face into my pillow and cried silently, just once allowing myself to grieve what I was losing.
Then I wiped my eyes, took a breath, and decided: whatever time I had left, I would make every second count.
Dad grew stronger every day. He went back to school, finished his degree, and started working at a nonprofit that helped trafficking survivors rebuild their lives.
He was good at it. He understood their pain in a way no one else could.
Grandma Rose and Grandpa Thomas watched over us with quiet devotion. Aunt Claire taught me how to braid hair and ride a bicycle — adapted with training wheels for my bad leg.
I went to school for the first time. Real school, with other children and recess and art class. It was overwhelming and wonderful.
Sometimes kids stared at my limp. A boy once asked why I walked funny. Before I could answer, a girl named Sophie shoved him and said, "She walks fine, you dummy!"
Sophie became my first real friend.
...
At seven years old, I started to feel something strange. A lightness in my body. A transparency at the edges.
It started small — moments where I looked at my hand and thought the sunlight passed through it a bit too easily. Times when I caught my reflection and my outline seemed softer, less solid.
I didn't understand at first. But slowly, a quiet certainty grew inside me.
I wasn't meant to stay.
This second life — this rebirth — wasn't permanent. It was borrowed time. A chance to do what I couldn't do before. And now that the mission was complete, the debt was paid.
I was fading.
Not quickly. Not painfully. Just... gradually. Like morning mist when the sun comes up.
I told no one. What would I even say?
Instead, I spent every moment soaking in my family. I memorized Dad's laugh — full and real now, nothing like the broken sounds he made at the estate. I memorized Grandma Rose's hugs, Grandpa Thomas's terrible jokes, Aunt Claire's singing voice.
I memorized everything, holding it close like treasure.
...
Dad noticed something was different.
"Lily, you've been so quiet lately," he said one Sunday, kneeling in front of me. "Is something wrong? Are you having bad dreams again?"
I threw my arms around his neck. "Nothing's wrong, Daddy. I just love you so much."
He held me tight and laughed softly. "I love you too, baby girl. More than anything in this world."
That night, after he tucked me in, I lay in the dark and looked at my hands. In the moonlight, I could see the bedsheet through them.
I wasn't afraid. Not really. I'd died once before, and it hadn't been so bad.
But I was sad. So deeply, achingly sad. Because this life — this real, beautiful life — was everything I'd ever wanted. And I wouldn't get to keep it.
I pressed my face into my pillow and cried silently, just once allowing myself to grieve what I was losing.
Then I wiped my eyes, took a breath, and decided: whatever time I had left, I would make every second count.