As far back as I can remember—and of this, I am certain—I never once asked to be born. Becoming the cause of my own mother's death was never something I planned. It was fate. A relentless, inescapable fate.
After all, who would ever ask to be brought into this world only to grow up motherless? Or to put it more harshly: who would ask to be born at the cost of their mother's life?
Whether this is a blessing or a curse—I do not know. But I am the one who remained alive on the day of my birth, while my mother traded her life so that I could exist in this world.
Though it is a faint memory, blurred like a dream or something that may or may not have happened—I think I remember my mother saying that I was a blessing. Yet, the words that always spilled from my father's lips were the polar opposite.
"You are a curse. Your birth is a curse to me. You are a jinx!"
When I first became aware of my existence, I didn't quite grasp the weight of those words. I only knew they were poisonous because as they left his mouth, his face twisted with uncontrollable rage. So, naturally, I understood: I am a curse—which meant I should never have been born into this world.
Perhaps it was when I started elementary school that I truly understood the meaning of 'curse' and 'jinx.' My understanding wasn't wrong; it indeed meant that it would have been better if I had never existed. And yet—for some reason, I remained stubbornly healthy and intelligent, surviving all the way to high school.
A high-achieving student, liked by everyone—except my father.
No matter how hard I tried, it was in vain. No matter how many trophies or certificates of achievement I brought home, they meant nothing in his eyes. To Father, I was merely a curse, a jinx, and—the murderer of his wife.
I didn't hate him. I thought it was only natural to hate the person who caused the death of the woman he loved so dearly. Everyone around me said that he never had anyone who loved him as wholeheartedly as my mother did. So, I tried to accept it.
All that hatred. I tucked it away in my heart, using it as a reminder that I must live an exemplary life—because the very air I breathe is the result of my mother's sacrifice.
I didn't hate him. I wasn't allowed to. I loved him. I loved the father who loved my mother so much. I wanted to possess a love as profound as his.
It didn't matter if Father hated me; my love for him was enough to dull the ache. I was fine with being unloved by him, for I was loved more by my mother—enough that she gave her life for mine.
"You killed my wife."
Correct. It is only right that you hate me, Father. It's okay, keep hating me until the pain in your heart finally subsides.
"If only you hadn't been born, my wife would still be here!"
I wish for that too, Father. I'd rather I never existed, so that Mother could be by your side. She is far more precious than a killer like me.
"You—"
His words cut off. I tightened my grip on my pencil. I didn't stop my work, even though I was desperate to know what he would say next.
"No, not you—it's me—I should never have met my wife."
Father?
"If only I hadn't met her, you wouldn't have been born. My wife would still be alive. I don't care who she'd be with. That would have been better." He muttered that night, standing outside my door, downing a beer he'd just bought from the nearest supermarket.
My hand froze over my books. I never expected such words to escape his lips. It was the first time he had said something like that. He wasn't blaming me?
"Ah, damn it. So it's all my fault?!" He shrieked from the living room. I had no choice but to turn toward the closed door from my desk.
I heard his footsteps—approaching fast. A few seconds later, the door burst open with a violent thud.
"Hey, you!"
"Yes, Father?" He never even used my name.
"Is it my fault?!" He demanded, his face fierce, brimming with the usual hatred. Yet, for some reason, something felt different. I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
Confused, I put down my pencil and stood up, stepping toward him.
"Answer me!" He shouted, his voice rising higher than before.
I flinched. Then, hesitantly, I met his eyes. "Then... was it my fault, Father?"
He fell silent. Without a word, he simply turned and walked away.
I took a long, shaky breath and wiped the stray tears from my cheeks. Assuming he wouldn't return, I closed the door and went back to my studies.
I had to study harder. Final exams were coming. I had to get into the best university—get a scholarship—graduate at the top of my class—find a good job—become successful. Perhaps then, Father might feel a flicker of pride.
Drip... Blood fell onto my notes, staining the ink.
It wasn't the first time. My nose always bled when I overexerted myself. It was fine. I just needed a tissue—
"Ugh..."
A sharp throb pierced my skull. It hurt—so much. Why so suddenly?
"It hurts..." I whimpered. My body felt like it was dissolving. My breath—no. What was happening? "Father..."
"Father... Help me... It hurts..."
My heart thrashed erratically; my body burned with an uncontrollable heat. I didn't know what was happening to me.
I collapsed from my chair, the sound of my body hitting the floor echoing loudly. I clawed toward the door, calling for him with every ounce of strength I had left.
"Help... Father..."
My ears rang. My vision blurred and spun until the world went darker. All I knew was that, in that final moment, the door burst open and Father was there. His face was a mask of pure anxiety.
Anxiety? For me?
"Sky!"
Ah. That was the first time he had ever called my name. I felt a surge of pure happiness. Father, I'm happy.
I could feel him now, pulling me into a desperate embrace. His tears were warm against my skin. I wanted to hug him back, but I couldn't move. I'm sorry, Father. My body won't listen anymore. I hope you can still see me smiling. I don't regret being your son. I'll find Mom and tell her how much you missed her.
How much pain you have to endured everyday—all of your longing and sorrow.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
"Ugh... I'm sorry... I'm sorry, Father."
"Young Master Cael!"
"I'm sorry."
I sobbed. I suppose even souls can weep, for I felt a trail of warmth on my cheeks.
But...
"Young Master Cael, wake up! You are alright now. Please, open your eyes."
I feel cold.
"Young Master!"
I felt someone shaking me, forcing my eyes to flutter open.
Wait. Open? Hadn't I died?
"Young Master?! Thank the heavens..."
The man spoke as my vision cleared. Who is he?
"Lord Duke, Young Master Cael is awake." The man called out to someone else. I looked over. A tall man stood there.
He looked incredibly cold, his face an emotionless mask. He merely nodded and walked away.
"Lord Duke..." I watched as the shoulders of the man beside me slumped in relief. He turned back to me, stroking my head with a smile. "It is not your fault that the Lady Duchess passed away, Young Master."
Eh?
"If anyone says such cruel things again, tell Uncle Cassian, do you understand? Uncle will teach them a lesson."
What?
Was this the reincarnation people talked about? I thought it only existed in fiction.
But what was this—not my fault the Duchess died? Did I... did I kill my mother again? Even in this life?
"Forgive me, Young Master Cael is only five years old. I should have stayed by your side. I am so sorry—from now on, I will watch over you more closely. I won't leave you to play with those rough children again." A woman in a maid's uniform sobbed hysterically beside me.
I'm five years old?
"Forgive me, please forgive Elena, Young Master!"
Before I could process anything, I was lifted into the arms of the man named Cassian and carried away.
I had so many questions, especially with the foreign memories slowly trickling into my mind. But I was too exhausted. I needed to rest.
In short, it seemed I had been reborn into the exact same tragedy as my first life.
I guess Father was right. I am a curse. A jinx.
But, was it truly my fault, Father?