I was born on the 16th of September.
The world was loud, bright, and confusing, but inside me, I was silent. I remembered everything. My first life, stolen from my real family, the betrayal that had cost me everything, the pain that had consumed me — all of it lingered in my tiny body, sharper than any adult could imagine.
My mother held me in her arms, exhausted and trembling. For a fleeting moment, I almost allowed myself to believe that this life would be different. That fate had finally been kind.
But then, it happened.
The arms holding me changed. Warmth and familiarity vanished, replaced by the touch of a woman I did not recognize. My heart, though small, recognized the pattern. History was repeating itself. I had been swapped. Again.
I was too weak to cry with purpose, too small to resist, yet inside, a storm brewed. Anger, sadness, and determination collided, and I knew one thing clearly: I would not allow this life to be stolen. Not this time.
The bed she placed me on was coarse and uncomfortable. The sheets scratched against my skin, and the room smelled faintly of detergent and fear. I closed my eyes, letting exhaustion pull me into sleep, though my mind remained sharp. I would wait. I would watch. And when the time came, I would take back everything that was mine.
Morning arrived with the soft glow of sunlight slipping through the window. She approached me again, offering milk and comfort. I turned my face away. I would not accept her. Not her touch. Not her milk. Not her attempts to make me hers.
Her confusion was clear — she could not understand why the newborn in her arms refused her. But I did. I remembered everything, and I had a plan. This life was my second chance, and I would not waste it.
I studied her carefully, noting every detail: the way she held herself, the smell she carried, the tone of her voice. I filed it all away in the part of my mind that had survived death once before. Every memory, every observation would serve me in the days, months, and years to come.
As the days passed, I observed quietly. I let them believe I was helpless, a normal baby. But behind my small eyes, a mind sharpened by loss and betrayal was already at work. I remembered the comforts of the rich home I had been taken from, the love I had been denied, and the power that had slipped through my fingers in my first life.
I would not make the same mistakes again.
Each touch I rejected, each cry I stifled, each moment I lay in silence, was a step toward reclaiming what was mine. I would grow stronger. I would remember. And I would return — not as a child this time, but as a force they could not ignore.
By nightfall, when the house had quieted and the moon cast shadows across the walls, I let my mind wander to the life I would build. A life of control, of influence, of undeniable power. They had thought they could erase me, hide me, replace me. They were wrong.
I would not only survive. I would thrive. I would rise. I would take back my name, my family, my life.
This tiny body in which I now lived was weak, yes, but my soul was unyielding. My second chance had begun, and I was ready.
And when the time came, I would make sure they remembered me — the girl who had been stolen, the girl who had returned, the girl who would take everything.