Cate sat beside me this year.

  She was not the kind of girl boys fought over.

  Not particularly pretty.

  Not loud.

  Not memorable in a crowd.

  But proximity creates detail.

  And detail reveals things others miss.

  The first time I noticed it was during English reading.

  The class read aloud together from the textbook.

  “In chorus,” the teacher instructed.

  Thirty small voices merged into uneven rhythm.

  “I go to school by bus.”

  Except we did not merge.

  We scattered.

  And beside me, a faint lag.

  “I… go… to… sch—”

  We had already reached “bus.”

  She was still on “school.”

  Soft.

  Half a second behind.

  Every sentence.

  Every paragraph.

  By the time we finished a line, she was finishing the second last word.

  No one noticed.

  Thirty voices hide one delay easily.

  But when you are sitting right next to it, the lag becomes obvious.

  During the next sentence, I slowed slightly.

  “I… eat… breakfast…”

  She was still behind.

  “…eat…”

  Her finger followed the words carefully as if each one required manual processing.

  After class, I watched her during silent reading.

  Her lips moved slightly.

  Eyes tracked slower than average.

  Not distracted.

  Just delayed.

  In my previous life, I had registered it as background noise.

  Some people are just slower, I thought.

  And I left it at that.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  This time, I did not.

  During recess, I turned to her casually.

  “You want to improve your English grades?”

  She blinked.

  “They’re okay.”

  “They can be better.”

  That caught her.

  “How?”

  I leaned closer.

  “When we read together, you’re slightly behind.”

  Her shoulders stiffened.

  “I am not.”

  “You are.”

  She looked embarrassed.

  “I try my best.”

  “I know.”

  Silence.

  Then softer.

  “I don’t know why I’m slow.”

  There it was.

  Not denial.

  Confusion.

  “After school,” I said. “We practice.”

  “Practice what?”

  “Speed.”

  That afternoon, instead of running to the canteen immediately, we stayed back in class.

  I opened the textbook.

  “We read sentence by sentence. But this time, you don’t move your finger.”

  She looked alarmed.

  “How to know where I am?”

  “You use your eyes.”

  She hesitated.

  “I will get lost.”

  “Then get lost. Then find it again.”

  She frowned at me.

  “That doesn’t help.”

  “It does.”

  We tried.

  First sentence.

  She stumbled.

  Eyes flicked back instinctively.

  Finger twitched but she forced it down.

  “Don’t read every word like it’s a stranger,” I said. “Group them.”

  “What?”

  “‘I go to school’ is one idea. Not four separate words.”

  She tried again.

  Still lagged.

  I changed tactic.

  “You read. I clap the rhythm.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are reading like you are stepping on stones in a river. One by one. You need to walk on the bridge.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Just read.”

  She began.

  I clapped softly in steady beats.

  Not fast.

  Not slow.

  Just consistent.

  Her reading began syncing unconsciously with the rhythm.

  Less stopping.

  Less backward eye movement.

  By the end of the page, she was only slightly behind.

  “Again tomorrow,” I said.

  “Why are you helping me?” she asked suddenly.

  “Because it’s irritating.”

  She stared.

  “You being behind.”

  She hit my arm lightly.

  “That’s not nice.”

  “It’s honest.”

  Next week, during chorus reading, I listened carefully.

  “I go to school by bus.”

  She reached “bus” almost with us.

  A fraction behind.

  But not visibly.

  Another week passed.

  Then one morning.

  Perfect sync.

  She turned slightly toward me mid sentence with the smallest hint of triumph in her eyes.

  After class she whispered, “I didn’t lag.”

  “I know.”

  “You noticed?”

  “I always notice.”

  She smiled.

  Small.

  Real.

  Helping her did something unexpected.

  It adjusted something inside me too.

  In my first life, I observed inefficiencies and walked past them.

  This time, I intervened.

  Small corrections compound.

  Assembly lines shifted subtly this year too.

  Every morning in the grand hall, each class formed a line before marching back to their classrooms.

  Shortest in front.

  Tallest at the back.

  In my first timeline, I was almost always second or third.

  Never first.

  There was always someone slightly shorter to absorb the burden of leadership.

  Leading the line meant walking at the front alone.

  All eyes on your back.

  I disliked that position.

  This year, when we lined up, I counted automatically.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Five.

  I was fifth.

  Still on the shorter end.

  But not second.

  Not third.

  Fifth.

  I scanned the heads in front of me.

  Two of them used to be taller than me.

  Or at least I remembered them that way.

  During the next few weeks, I paid attention.

  Height charts during health check.

  Standing beside old classmates.

  Door frame markings at home.

  Something was off.

  Not dramatically.

  Subtly.

  I seemed slightly taller than memory.

  Not towering.

  Just ahead of schedule.

  I stood in front of the mirror one night.

  Arms at sides.

  Measured against the wall.

  “Did I grow faster?” I muttered.

  Mother walked past.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking height.”

  “Why?”

  “Just checking.”

  “You eat more this year.”

  That was true.

  Second life appetite was different.

  Less picky.

  More deliberate.

  Maybe nutrition was the explanation.

  Or maybe memory was unreliable.

  Or maybe time itself was not a perfect loop.

  The past repeated many events precisely.

  Same teachers.

  Same tuition structure.

  Same award envelopes.

  Same wolf story.

  But not everything aligned perfectly.

  And that unsettled me more than repetition.

  If small physical details could shift, what about larger events?

  I had already decided not to interfere with major turning points.

  No reckless disruption.

  No grand alterations.

  Observe.

  Accumulate.

  Prepare.

  But standing fifth instead of third in a morning assembly line felt like a message.

  The timeline was stable.

  Not identical.

  I exhaled.

  Maybe I was just eating more.

  Maybe I was thinking too much.

  The line began moving.

  This time, I did not mind being closer to the front.