I Knew Everything From The Start

On the day I was reincarnated, it was the exact day of my adoption at the orphanage.

I stood there and watched as Mason dragged his adoptive mother by the hand, pointing frantically toward the girl singing on the swing set, Harah.

Mom! Can we adopt this sister, please?!

In my past life, the adoptive parents had taken me home instead.

Mason had resented me for being quiet, for not knowing how to act cute, and for never being as charming as the girl who loved the swings.

I organized his study notes, took care of his aging parents, and when the family went bankrupt, I dropped out of school to work and keep the family afloat.

His attitude toward me softened, just a tiny bit.

But every single time I was in competition with Harah, he still demanded that I step aside.

The university recommendation, the scholarship, the overseas training programevery single time.

The final time was when the plane went down.

As the flames engulfed the cabin, he looked at me and murmured:

"If there is a next life... I wish Harah could be my sister."

I heard him.

When I opened my eyes again.

I was back on Adoption Day.

This time, I smiled before Mason could even open his mouth:

"Mr. and Mrs. Evans, I think Harah is a much better fit for your family."

Then I turned around and walked straight toward the Miller couple, the people who had adopted Harah in my past life.

"I want to go home with you."

Mr. Miller froze for a second. He crouched down to meet me at eye level.

His hands were rough, covered in thick calluses, and he held his palm out toward me.

"What is your name, little girl?"

"...Hazel. Like the tree."

"Hazel," he repeated. His voice was incredibly gentle, like he was afraid of startling a wild bird.

"We want a daughter. Do not worry about being quiet. Our house is very peaceful, and you do not need to perform or entertain anyone to stay with us."

Behind him, Mrs. Millers eyes grew slightly red, though she didn't speak.

Instead, she pulled a carefully folded handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it into my hand.

"Wipe your hands," she whispered. "Why are they so cold?"

I looked down at my hands.

I had been pinching my palms so hard out of anxiety that a row of pale, crescent-shaped indentations marked my skin.

A sudden, sharp ache hit the back of my nose.

In my twenty-two years with the Evans family in my past life, not a single person had ever asked me why my hands were cold.

Laughter drifted over from the swing set. It was Harah.

Mason gave me a complicated look but said nothing more.

He pulled Mrs. Evans toward the swings, turning back to yell:

"Mom! Hurry up! Look how high she is swinging!"

Mrs. Evans cast one final glance at me.

There was a fleeting flash of regret in her eyes, but it vanished instantly.

She turned and walked toward the swing set.

Mr. Miller was still crouched in front of me, his hand outstretched.

His palm was rough, warm, and waiting quietly.

I placed my hand in his.

"Okay," I said. "I will go home with you."

When we walked out of the orphanage gates, the sunlight was so bright it made me squint.

Mrs. Miller walked on my left, Mr. Miller on my right. I was wedged in the middle, each of my hands held securely in theirs.

I turned my head and looked back one last time.

Mason was lifting Harah off the swing, smiling so widely his eyes turned into crescent moons.

That was the absolute last time in this life I ever turned around to look at them.

The Millers lived in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment tucked away in an old, working-class neighborhood on the east side of the city.

The living room held a faded, aggressively patterned fabric sofa.

Mrs. Miller dug through the shoe cabinet for a solid minute before pulling out a pair of brand-new, fluffy pink slippers. The tags were still on them.

"Bought these ages ago," she murmured, crouching down to snip the plastic tag. Her ears were flushed. "Just never knew when we would actually get a daughter. They have been sitting there for two years."

Mr. Miller leaned out from the tiny kitchen.

"Hazel! I am making fried fish. Do you eat fish?"

"I do."

"Great!"

He popped back into the kitchen, the loud clang of a spatula hitting a wok echoing through the apartment.

I stood in the living room wearing those fuzzy pink slippers, the soles so soft it felt like I was stepping on clouds.

That first night, I slept in the spare bedroom. The sheets were freshly changed, smelling deeply of clean cotton baked in the sun.

A small nightlight glowed on the nightstand, casting a warm, amber light across the room.

Mrs. Miller hovered in the doorway for a long time. She opened her mouth, closed it, and finally just said:

"I will leave the door open. Call me if you need anything."

After she left, I buried my face in the pillow.

The pillow had been sun-dried too. It was plush, crisp, and radiated an indescribable warmth.

For the first time in two lifetimes, I fell asleep in a strange place without curling myself into a tight, defensive ball.

Things over at the Evans household, however, were loud.

Mr. Miller ran a phone repair stall at the night market. He dealt with every kind of person imaginable, which meant he heard the neighborhood gossip faster than anyone.

On the third day, he came home, dropped his toolbox by the door, stripped off his jacket, and turned to Mrs. Miller.

"Guess what. The Evans family threw a massive party. Booked seven or eight tables. Said it was a welcome banquet for their new daughter."

Mrs. Miller, who was scooping rice into bowls, paused.

"They threw a banquet?"

"Yup. Booked a private hall at the Grand Plaza."

Mr. Miller took off his apron, hung it behind the door, and glanced over at me, deliberately lowering his voice.

"Word on the street is the son demanded it. Said he wanted to officially and grandly welcome his new sister to the family."

"Do you think we should..."

Mrs. Miller trailed off, checking my expression. She didn't finish the thought, merely placing a bowl of rice in front of me and adding a generous portion of greens to the top.

"Hazel, time to eat."

"Okay," I replied.

In my past life, on my third day in the Evans house, Mason locked himself in his room and refused to come out.

Mrs. Evans cooked an entire feast, but he wouldn't even crack the door open.

Later, I stood outside his room for thirty minutes holding a plate of food. A piece of paper was shoved out from under the door gap. It read:

"Leave me alone."

There was no banquet.

There was no Grand Plaza.

There was no "grandly welcoming his new sister."

He didn't even call me "sister" a single time.

I had no idea what was going through Mason's head when he demanded a banquet for Harah.

But that was his problem. It had absolutely nothing to do with me.

Bits and pieces of the Grand Plaza banquet still trickled down to me.

Mrs. Miller ran into the Evans housekeeper at the vegetable market. The two stood by a produce stand and chatted.

The housekeeper loved to gossip and spilled everything.

She said Mason wore a crisp new dress shirt, his hair styled perfectly. He held Harah's hand the entire night, walking her from table to table to introduce her to the extended family.

She said Harah was incredibly sweet, addressing everyone perfectly"Uncle," "Auntie," "Cousin"making the whole room laugh in delight.

She said Mason even tapped his glass with a fork, stood up, and gave a speech.

"Thank you all for coming. This is my sister. From now on, anyone who messes with her is messing with me."

The entire hall erupted in applause.

Mrs. Miller sighed, quietly snapping the ends off green beans at the kitchen table.

Only after the housekeeper had walked away did Mrs. Miller look at me, her voice hesitant.

"Hazel... do you regret it? Choosing our family that day?"

"Of course not. I cannot thank you enough. Truly."

I meant every word.

In my past life, I waited twenty-two years in the Evans house. I waited for him to call me his sister. I waited for him to treat me like actual family.

I waited until the plane caught fire and he said, "I wish Harah was my sister."

I had done enough waiting for one lifetime.

A few days later, Mrs. Miller came back from the market holding a large bag of premium apples.

She explained that the Evans' housekeeper had forced them onto her and refused to take them back.

"She said Mason asked her to pass them along. He said to say... thank you."

Mrs. Miller placed the apples on the table and watched me carefully.

I picked one up, rubbed it on my sleeve, and took a bite.

It was crisp, sweet, and incredibly juicy.

"Then tell him you are welcome."

I said.

Mrs. Miller gave me a long look, said nothing, and turned back to the kitchen.

I tossed the apple core into the trash and walked out to the balcony to check on the jasmine plant.

The leaves looked a bit more lively than a few days ago, and a tiny, pale green bud was sprouting from one of the branches.

I had no desire to decode what Mason's "thank you" meant.

Maybe he was thanking me for stepping aside so he could have Harah. Maybe he was thanking me for leaving quietly without making a scene.

Or maybe he was thanking me for not exposing his desperate maneuvering on Adoption Day.

He chose Harah, and then comfortably accepted my quiet exit.

Fine by me.

He got the sister he wanted.

And whatever debt he felt he owed me, I wasn't going to collect.

On the first day of middle school, I ran into Harah in the hallway.

She was wearing a brand-new designer backpack, her hair tied up with a silk bow. She froze when she saw me, then broke into a bright smile.

"Hazel! You go to school here too?"

"Yeah."

"I am in Class Three! What about you?"

"Class Seven."

"What a coincidence!" She beamed. "We are schoolmates now!"

I just gave a curt nod and walked away.

So, Harah and I attended the same school.

She was in Class Three, I was in Class Seven. Every single day after school, I saw Mason waiting at the gates to pick her up.

Even from across a crowded hallway, I could feel his gaze burning into the side of my head.

I ignored it entirely.

A month later, the midterm rankings were posted. I ranked seventh in the entire grade. Harah ranked ninety-third.

The massive red bulletin board was plastered right outside the cafeteria, impossible to miss.

That afternoon, Mason was standing in the corridor between the classrooms, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

As I walked out, he called my name.

His tone was different from before. It was flatter, slower, like he had rehearsed a speech but swallowed half the words at the last second.

"Hazel... Miller."

I stopped and looked at him.

He rubbed his hands together nervously, shoved them back into his pockets, and shifted his gaze from my face, to the bulletin board, and back again.

"My parents brought you up at dinner a few days ago. They heard your grades are excellent."

I said nothing.

"They said... back at the orphanage, you were always so well-behaved."

"Yeah."

He paused again.

A yellow ginkgo leaf drifted down and landed on his shoulder. He didn't brush it off.

"They said you are doing really well."

"Thank you," I replied. "Tell your parents I said thanks."

Then I walked away.

That night at dinner, Mrs. Miller asked how I did on the midterms.

I told her I ranked seventh in the grade.

She was so ecstatic she dropped her spatula, ran out of the kitchen, and hugged me tight. The grease from her apron smeared right onto my sleeve.

Mr. Miller rushed out of the living room in a panic. "What happened? What happened?!"

"Your daughter got seventh! Seventh in the whole grade!"

Mr. Miller blinked, then a massive grin split his face.

"Well, does that mean we need a celebratory dish?"

"Yes! What does Hazel want to eat?"

"Fried fish, please."

"Fish again? We just had that two days ago!"

"Then I will make extra crispy fried fish!"

Mrs. Miller shot me a playful glare, marching back into the kitchen, muttering under her breath, though the oil was already sizzling in the pan.

Mr. Miller sat back down on the sofa, picking up his screwdriver to tinker with an old radio, humming a song horribly off-key.

I sat at the dining table, looking at my adoptive mother bustling in the kitchen and my adoptive father humming in the living room.

I suddenly realized I didn't care at all about that ginkgo leaf on Mason's shoulder.

The second semester of eighth grade, Mason approached me voluntarily for the second time.

I was waiting at the bus stop after school. He spotted me from the shadow of a billboard three meters away.

I pretended not to see him.

He walked over and stopped beside me, leaving a half-step of distance between us. Close, but not too close.

"Hazel."

"Yeah."

"You are in eighth grade now?"

"Yeah."

"How were the midterms?"

"Fine."

He ran out of things to say.

I didn't offer anything else.

The bus arrived. I swiped my card, walked to the back, and took a window seat.

As the bus pulled away, I glanced out the window. He was still standing beneath the billboard, his gray silhouette dissolving into the evening dusk.

That night, while I was doing homework, my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Mason.

"Harah bombed her midterms. My dad completely lost it and screamed at her. Could you lend her your study notes so she can copy them?"

I stared at the message for a long time.

A second text popped up.

"Just this once. She will return them the second she is done."

Then a third.

"Just consider it a favor."

I put my phone face down on the desk. I finished my math homework. Then my English homework. Then physics.

When I was completely done, it was past eleven at night.

I picked up the phone and typed a single word:

"Sure."

I hit send and turned the phone off.

The next day at noon, Harah came to find me.

She stood outside Class Seven holding a bubble tea, smiling her trademark sugary smile.

"Hazel, thank you so much! I finished copying everything. Here are your notes back!"

She handed the notebook over. Stuck to the cover was a sticky note with a crooked, hand-drawn heart.

I flipped the notebook open. In the margins of one of the pages, written in tiny, deliberate handwriting, was a sentence.

"Your brother told you to let me win, and you did. You are such a good person."

I dog-eared that page and closed the notebook.

Harah skipped away, her ponytail bouncing behind her.

I stood in the hallway, watching her back.

In my past life, she had said almost the exact same thing to me. Right after I gave up the university recommendation, withdrew my scholarship application, and declined the overseas training. She had smiled and said, "Hazel, you are so nice."

Back then, I thought it was a genuine compliment.

Now, I finally understood what she really meant.

Her translation was: "You handed what was yours over to me, which makes you a pushover. And I am going to keep taking."

A month later, the school announced they were hosting a New Year's Gala. Each class had to nominate one candidate to host the event, and the faculty would select one boy and one girl from the entire grade.

Class Three nominated Harah. She was outgoing, sweet-talking, and loved being on stage. Her homeroom teacher picked her instantly.

The homeroom teacher for Class Seven hesitated for days before finally calling my name.

I had ranked in the top five on the midterms, and the teacher claimed, "Top students have a stable stage presence." I didn't decline. I just nodded.

The day the candidate list was posted on the bulletin board, Harah walked past Class Seven and peeked through the window.

I was doing homework. Feeling eyes on me, I looked up.

She flashed me a sweet smile, spun on her heel, and walked away, her ponytail swishing behind her.

After school, Mason was waiting at the gates.

As I walked out, he stood up straight.

"Hazel."

"Yeah."

"That gala host audition," he said, his voice tight. "Can you drop out?"