The argument erupted, a sudden, ugly tear in the polite hum of the company's annual gala. Marcus, a mid-level manager with a perpetually flushed face, bellowed at another employee across the glittering bar. The air, already thick with expensive perfume, stale cigar smoke, and the cloying scent of spilled liquor, tightened with the escalating tension. Elara, merely an employee rather than a celebrated guest, clung to the shadows by a potted palm in the corner, the familiar, desperate urge to disappear overwhelming her.
Only moments before, Brenda, a senior colleague whose sharp tongue was as legendary as her perfectly coiffed hair, had cornered her. Elara had just finalized a critical report, a complicated document she'd poured countless late nights into, a report that had directly secured a significant portion of the CEO's celebrated deal.
"Honestly, Elara," Brenda had purred, her smile a brittle, unconvincing thing that never quite reached her eyes, "you work so hard. It's almost... endearing. Like a little puppy trying to fetch the biggest stick. But we all know who the real players are, don't we? Some of us have the right connections, the right names. You just keep churning out those spreadsheets, dear. Someone has to."
The casual dismissal, the thinly veiled insult, cut deeper than any shout. Elara felt the familiar sting, the primal urge to lash out, to scream, but years of ingrained suppression had taught her only silence.
"Brenda," she replied softly, forcing a brittle smile, "one day, someone might actually appreciate the stick-fetchers. Without us, the players would have no stage."
Brenda blinked, surprised by the quiet retort. But she merely laughed, a tinkling, condescending sound. "Well, that's a funny thing to say.," she said with a smirk, and turned away.
The escalating argument at the bar spiraled rapidly, fueled by alcohol and simmering resentments. Voices rose to shouts, chairs scraped, and suddenly, a full-blown riot erupted near the center of the room.
Elara turned to leave, her instincts screaming to escape the chaos. As she backed away, she collided with someone—Ethan, the quiet, observant IT guy who always seemed invisible to everyone else.
"Whoa, careful," he said, steadying her. "You, okay?"
"No," she said honestly, the noise and tension pressing against her skull. "I think we need to get out of here. Things are getting out of hand."
Before Ethan could respond, a chilling sound ripped through the air: a gunshot.
It was David, a junior executive, his face contorted with drunken fury, who had pulled a small, illegal handgun. He'd intended to fire a warning shot, perhaps to intimidate a rival, but his aim, completely off due to his inebriation and the surging crowd, sent the bullet wildly astray.
Elara had no time to react. A searing, white-hot pain exploded in her chest. Her breath hitched, a ragged gasp caught in her throat. The elegant bar spun, a dizzying kaleidoscope of distorted faces and glittering lights.
She crumpled to the floor. Distant voices blurred together.
Brenda appeared instantly, dropping to her knees beside Elara, her usually flawless face contorted with panic. Ethan, rigid with shock, was already there. "Elara? Hey, don't you dare close your eyes! Elara!"
Elara blinked, her vision getting blurry. "You... wh-what's happening," she murmured.
Brenda's lip trembled. "You just got shot, you idiot!"
A strange, sad smile tugged at Elara's lips. "It hurts. It hurts."
"Shut up. Just hold on," Brenda choked out, squeezing Elara's hand. Her gaze, wild with desperation, swept over the onlookers. "Call an ambulance! Can't you see someone's been shot?!"
How utterly pathetic, Elara thought. To die like this. A single, hot tear, a final testament to a lifetime of unrequited longing, escaped her eye and trailed through the sticky wetness on her cheek.
Then, the darkness consumed her.
She drifted. Or fell. There was no up, no down, just an endless, silent void. The fragmented images of her past flickered like dying embers, each a pang of hollow ache, a testament to being perpetually unwanted. There was no light, no sound, only the faint, persistent pull, like an invisible current drawing her deeper into the unknown.
Then, sensation.
A jarring, rough texture pressed against her back. The faint, earthy scent of straw and damp wood filled her nostrils. Distant voices murmured, a low hum she couldn't quite decipher.
She tried to move, and her limbs felt… different. Lighter. Smaller. A strange, unfamiliar energy coursed through them. Her eyes fluttered open. Rough-hewn wooden beams crisscrossed above her, and a single, small window showed a sky she didn't recognize.
She pushed herself up, her new body responding with an unfamiliar grace. Her hands, small and unblemished, were not her own.
Then came the memories. Not hers. A childhood of another—a different Elara—poured into her like floodwaters breaking through a dam.
Scenes flickered behind her eyes—too vivid to be imagined. Too painful to be someone else's dream.
She saw the girl—that Elara—standing in a long hallway of polished marble, balancing a silver tray in her tiny hands. Steam curled up from the delicate porcelain cup, the tea brewed just as he liked it. Jasmine and mint, a blend she'd memorized after watching from the shadows. She had risen early, tiptoeing through the servants' quarters before dawn, asking the kitchen staff with hushed words and lowered eyes, careful not to spill even a drop.
It was for her father. The emperor.
Her face lit up at the thought—soft with shy hope. Maybe this time he would look at her. Maybe this time he would see her.
But when she neared the audience chamber, a tall official with stiff robes stepped directly into her path. His expression was sharp, his words sharper.
"His Majesty does not wish to be disturbed by you, my lady," he said, voice clipped with disdain. "Leave."
She blinked, stunned, as if the words didn't register. Her mouth parted slightly, as if she meant to plead—but the great doors closed with a hollow thud before she could even try.
The tray trembled in her grip. The scent of the tea curled up toward her nose, now bitter. A servant passed her by and deliberately knocked her shoulder, nearly making her spill it.
"Trying to play daughter again?" the maid muttered with a smirk. "Pathetic."
"She doesn't even know what's pathetic," another chimed in nearby. "It's almost funny."
Laughter. Snickers. Words no child should ever be used to hearing.
"She should've been left in the gutter where she came from."
The little girl stood frozen. Her knuckles turned white around the tray's handles. Her small shoulders heaved, but no tears fell. Instead, she bowed her head, turned away from the grand hall, and began the long walk back down the corridor.
It was then—just as she turned the corner—that the memory shifted again.
There they were.
Two boys standing ahead, cloaked in velvet and pride, perhaps no older than herself. One had pale silver hair that shimmered under the sunlight from the windows. The other stood taller, sharper in gaze, dressed in royal black and crimson. They stood there, facing her.
The younger one wrinkled his nose. "Why is she even allowed to walk these halls?"
"She'll ruin the air," the other muttered, his voice cold and flat. "Don't come near us."
Their disdain didn't rise to anger—it was worse than that. It was boredom. As if hating her didn't even cost them effort. As if it were natural.
Elara felt the memory hit like a stone to the chest. Not just the words—but the knowing. The girl's silence. The way she stiffened her spine even then. The way she held onto the tray, as if she still believed, even in that moment, that she could offer something to be accepted.
And just past the boys, another figure.
A girl. Refined, graceful, her posture straight as she leafed through a small leather-bound book while walking. She paused, noticed the tea tray, the girl's bowed head, the faint lingering words.
Their eyes met—just once.
That princess stared at her blankly, eyes unreadable, then looked away and continued her walk without a single word. Not cruelty. Not kindness.
Just absence.
Indifference.
As if the girl had been less than a shadow in the corner of her vision.
Elara—now Elara—saw it all, felt it all.
And instinctively, she knew.
This body she had taken in… it had been hated. Rejected by blood. Mocked by servants. Ignored by those closest in rank.
By the emperor.
By the princes.
Even the princess had deemed her unworthy of a glance.
Later, the girl brought the untouched tea to a quiet, forgotten corner of the palace gardens and sat alone. She poured the drink into two cups—one for herself, one for someone who didn't exist—and whispered, "Thank you for visiting me," as though the imagined guest had smiled.
She still forced a smile.
And a whisper, too faint to be spoken aloud, echoed in the hollows of memory:
If I just work harder... maybe they'll see me. Maybe they'll stop hating me.
But they never did.
Not once.
Time and time again, she was ignored, neglected, ridiculed. Every act of kindness she gave, every effort she made, was met with indifference or scorn. Her smiles became shields. Her obedience, a silent plea.
And through it all, no one ever said, You've done well.
No one ever said, I see you.
Elara felt her chest tighten. That life—the ache of it—was still inside the body she now wore. Etched into every joint and cautious breath. That girl's memories had become hers, not by choice, but by inheritance.
But she was not that Elara. And she would never be.
The girl before had sought love in locked rooms and hollow hearts. She had smiled to be accepted, swallowed her voice just to belong.
Elara curled her fingers into the blanket and looked out the window again.
Not anymore.
If this life had been handed back to her, she would not spend it begging for scraps of affection. That pain would not be for nothing. She would remember it—but it would no longer define her.
She would build something out of it. Something unshakable.
And this time, they would be the ones who couldn't look away.
The door creaked open. A woman stepped inside, balancing a wooden bowl filled with steaming broth. Her steps were careful, practiced—but when her eyes landed on the figure sitting up in bed, everything stopped.
The bowl slipped from her hands.
It hit the floor with a dull thud, splattering its contents across the wooden planks.
"My lady?" Marta's voice trembled, barely more than a whisper.
Her breath hitched, hand hovering in midair as though unsure whether to reach out or back away. Tears instantly welled in her eyes, disbelief flickering across her face.
"You're… awake." Her words were shaky, like she didn't trust them. "You're really awake."
Elara blinked, unsure of how to respond. Her body still felt strange, her mind caught between past and present.
Marta took a hesitant step forward, then paused. Her hands fluttered at her sides. "I-I should call the physician—no, wait—should I?" Her voice cracked, caught between panic and joy. "Or maybe—should I fetch His Grace? Or—gods, I should—" She turned in a half-circle, disoriented, as if the world had spun off its axis.
Then her instincts kicked in.
With a soft sob, she rushed to Elara's side and dropped to her knees beside the bed. She didn't hug her, not quite—but her trembling hands cupped Elara's face like it was something fragile, something that could still disappear.
"My lady… forgive me—I thought we'd lost you. You were cold for days. You wouldn't wake up. We feared the worst."
Elara stared at her, confused. "Who… are you?"
Marta froze, then pulled back slightly, her lips parting. "I'm Marta," she said softly. "Your personal maid, my lady. Don't you remember me?"
When Elara gave no answer, Marta's shoulders drooped. Still, she managed a wobbly smile.
"You must've hit your head hard," she said gently. "It's alright. We'll take care of you. Just… rest for now."
Elara clutched the thin blanket around her. "Am I… in trouble?"
"No, dear. No, of course not." Marta's reply was instant, her voice thick with emotion. "You're safe now."
Safe.
Elara's eyes drifted to the window, where late afternoon sunlight slanted through sheer curtains, painting soft gold across the stone floor. The light was warm. Peaceful. But to her, it felt foreign—like something out of a story told to someone else.
The word echoed in her ears, over and over.
Safe.
She wanted to believe it. Desperately. But the word sat strangely in her chest, like it didn't belong there. Like it didn't know her. It sounded… wrong.
She had been falling—hadn't she? Her blood, warm against cold stone. That moment still felt close, clinging to her like a second skin. The panic. The stillness. The heavy silence that had followed after her heartbeat slowed, then faded altogether.
She remembered it vividly. The weight of death pressing down on her ribs, the fading world narrowing into black. There had been no rescue. No last-minute salvation.
So how…?
How am I alive?
Her fingers curled into the blanket. This has to be a dream. Maybe her mind, clinging to life, had created this place. A quiet room. A warm bed. A kind face. A false safety. Because that's what it had always been in the past—an illusion. A bait before the next blow.
I died back there… didn't I?
She stared down at her hands. They trembled slightly, but they were real. She could feel the coarse fabric beneath her palms, the ache in her limbs, the dull throb at the back of her head. Her body was sore. Her breath fogged lightly in the cool air.
Everything felt real. But that only made it harder to believe. She had no memory of being saved. No memory of being pulled back from the edge. One moment, she had been slipping into nothingness. The next—this.
A second chance? Why would she be given one?
What rules governed this place? Who had decided she could come back?
She didn't know. And that terrified her. But even through the haze of confusion and disbelief, one thing was certain: She wasn't the same girl who had died. Not entirely.
Not anymore.
If fate had brought her back, then she would decide what to do with it. No more pleading. No more waiting for kindness that would never come. This time, she would survive on her own terms.
And if she was dreaming?
Then she would make damn sure it was a dream worth living.