"The night is colder than usual…" I mumbled into the stillness of a Thursday evening.
It wasn't the first time the street had been this quiet—but tonight, it made me uneasy.
Too quiet.
Weirdly quiet.
I hugged my schoolbagtighter against my chest, my heartbeat loud in my ears, my mind circling back repeatedly to the money inside. My tuition fee—months of my Lola's laundry work, market errands, and endless sacrifices—folded neatly into a few thin bills.
Lola… my only family.
She talks and complains a lot, but no one works harder than she does. And as a working student, having her by my side was my only reassurance—that somehow, we'd get through.
"Apo," she would always say, "I don't have anything to pass down to you. No land. No treasure. But I can give you an education. Study well… and change your life."
A faint smile tugged at my lips at the memory.
"What a long evening…" I whispered into the emptiness. I was tired, but at least tomorrow I could pay the registrar. One less worry.
My shoes scuffed against the uneven road. The air smelled faintly of rain, even though the sky was clear.
The dim streetlights flickered overhead, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. Somewhere far away, a tricycle engine coughed to life, then sputtered out.
That's when I heard it.
Footsteps.
Not mine.
Slow at first. Then quicker. Closer.
My pulse spiked. I glanced over my shoulder—nothing but darkness.
I told myself to keep walking, to ignore the chill crawling up my spine. But the sound followed.
My heart raced as I quickened my steps toward the nearest streetlight, hoping its glow would cut through the shadows.
Until—
"Miss," a man's voice came from the darkness. Rough. Urgent. Wrong. "Give me that."
I froze.
He stepped into the light, eyes bloodshot, breath heavy with the stench of alcohol. The dull gleam of a rusty knife caught under the flicker of the lamp.
"P-please," I managed to say, my voice trembling. "This isn't mine. My grandma worked for this—please." My eyes stung with tears.
"Give it! " he shouted, lunging forward.
And without thinking at all, I ran.
My bag slammed against my ribs as the cold air tore through my lungs.
But no matter how desperately I ran, he still caught me. His grip is like iron. I screamed for help repeatedly—until the pain came. Sharp. Burning. It slid into my side, and my legs gave up.
I slowly fell and the world tilted as I hit the pavement.
The bag slipped from my hands and landed in a shallow puddle, and the inside soaked through.
I could hear my breathing—shallow, broken—and the sound of his footsteps fading into the night. My blood spread across the cold concrete, warm against my skin.
Above me, the streetlight flickered twice… then went out.
Leaving me in complete darkness.
Tears slipped down my cheeks as flashes of my life—happy, painful, ordinary—spilled through my mind.
I turned my gaze to the full moon, glowing unnaturally bright. My vision blurred, my hands numb.
Time seemed to slow, heavy with what-ifs and regrets.
"If I had been born rich… if life had been kinder… maybe I wouldn't be dying here like this," I whispered, my voice almost gone.
The air thickened, wrapping around me like a blanket. My eyelids grew heavy… and then, everything went black.
____________________________________________________________________________________
My head hurt—like every single time I've had a hangover.
Did Lola and I drink last night? How drunk did we get?
Then, like a flash, a familiar scene tore through my mind. A crime scene.
No… my crime scene.
My death.
I jolted awake to warmth, my heart racing, my lungs desperate for air.
It wasn't the dusty warmth of my small bed, but the soft, heavy comfort of a mattress that sank beneath me like a cloud. My fingers brushed over smooth silk. My skin… was it paler?
I sat up too fast. The room spun around me—wooden walls carved in intricate patterns, a spacious chamber with curtains thick as blankets, and beyond them, sunlight pouring over rows of trees and an unfamiliar road.
A place I had only ever seen in books, paintings, or the museum.
A knock at the door made me jump.
"Señorita Isabelle? You're already late for breakfast. The Takano family will arrive this afternoon."
… Señorita who?
The door creaked open, revealing a young maid in a plain dress—simple, yet covering her from collarbone to almost her feet. The style reminded me of my Lola's stories from the past. She gave me a curious look.
"You're not going to wear last week's baro't saya again, are you? "
WHAT?!
Her voice faded as a sharp pain shot through my head—not physically, but like a floodgate bursting open.
A new name.
A noble house.
A fiancé's cold eyes.
A cousin's mocking smile.
Memories. But not mine.
I was no longer Chiarra Antonette Legazpi.
I am now Maria Isabelle Araneta Cruz—the disgraced daughter of a noble family in the 1940s.
And I already knew exactly how her story ended.