I emptied the drawer on a Sunday morning.

  Red packet money.

  Temple award leftovers.

  Change from careful purchases.

  Notes folded flat. Coins sorted into small plastic sleeves.

  I stacked everything on the table.

  Counted once.

  Counted again.

  Wrote the total on a small slip of paper.

  It was not a large sum.

  But it was clean capital.

  Unspent.

  Untouched.

  Every dollar preserved against future asymmetry.

  Bitcoin would one day trade below a dollar.

  Below a single meal.

  Below a taxi fare.

  The thought never left me.

  I slid the money back into the drawer.

  Then walked to the living room where Father was reviewing invoices.

  “Can we talk?”

  He looked up.

  “Serious face. What happened?”

  “Long term planning.”

  He laughed lightly.

  “You’re nine.”

  “I know.”

  He closed the file anyway.

  We sat across from each other at the dining table.

  “I need to confirm something,” I said.

  “Confirm what?”

  “For the 2020 market crash.”

  He did not even blink anymore when I said things like that.

  “How much are you setting aside?”

  He leaned back.

  “The amount we discussed.”

  “I want exact figure.”

  He studied me.

  Then gave it.

  A six-figure sum.

  Parked in fixed deposits staggered across maturities.

  Some in cash.

  Some in liquid instruments.

  “Where exactly?” I pressed.

  He walked to the cabinet.

  Unlocked a compartment.

  Showed me copies of statements.

  Account numbers.

  Bank names.

  Which account was joint.

  Which was solely under his name.

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  “If anything happens to me,” he said calmly, “this one goes directly to your mother. This one is nominated to you. This insurance policy pays out here.”

  He tapped each document precisely.

  Flow of funds.

  No ambiguity.

  I memorized everything.

  “And your business?”

  He exhaled.

  “Stable.”

  “Customer credit?”

  “We vet them.”

  “How?”

  “Background checks. Industry reputation. Payment terms shortened.”

  “No unsecured long-term credit?”

  “Rare.”

  I stared at him.

  “In my previous life, someone ran away without paying.”

  He was silent.

  “That kind of bad debt is what kills capital-intensive businesses,” I continued. “You’re in plumbing. Materials first. Labor first. Payment later. If they disappear, cash flow collapses.”

  He did not dismiss it.

  He folded his hands.

  “I’ve tightened receivables,” he said. “No more excessive credit extension. Deposits upfront for larger jobs.”

  “And your best friends?”

  That one hung heavier.

  He did not answer immediately.

  “They’re not handling assets,” he said finally. “Everything is structured legally now.”

  “On paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “No informal trust?”

  “No.”

  “Written clarity?”

  “Yes.”

  I held his gaze.

  “In my previous life, after you passed, things were… unclear.”

  His jaw tightened slightly.

  “I won’t let that happen again.”

  We spent hours mapping contingencies.

  What if he fell ill.

  What if business slowed.

  What if 2020 crash came earlier.

  What if it came later.

  We discussed asset allocation.

  Liquidity windows.

  Who to trust with execution.

  Who not to.

  At one point he looked at me quietly.

  “You’re very afraid.”

  I did not deny it.

  “Year Four,” I said softly.

  He knew what I meant.

  In my memory, he did not survive past it.

  Major events felt anchored.

  Small details shifted.

  Height positions changed.

  Vomit frequency altered.

  But deaths?

  Bankruptcies?

  Those felt gravitational.

  Harder to bend.

  “I’m still here,” he said.

  “For now.”

  The words slipped out before I could soften them.

  He reached across the table and squeezed my shoulder.

  “Then we prepare. Not panic.”

  By Sunday night, every document was rechecked.

  Every beneficiary confirmed.

  Every vulnerable gap discussed.

  I went to bed with a heavier mind than any nine-year-old should carry.

  Monday.

  First day of Year Four.

  New classroom.

  New teacher.

  Same school.

  Different air.

  As I walked toward the building, a memory surfaced sharply.

  My first day of Year Four in the previous life.

  The cane.

  I almost laughed.

  Almost.

  Back then, the teacher had introduced herself sternly.

  “I expect discipline. When announcements are made over the school speaker, you will listen carefully. I may ask about them.”

  That morning, before her introduction, there had indeed been a long announcement over the speakers.

  I remembered fragments.

  Names.

  Events.

  Housekeeping reminders.

  When attendance was taken, all we had to do was simple.

  Raise hand.

  Say, “Here.”

  When my name was called, I stood.

  Instead of saying “Here,” I began reciting parts of the morning announcement.

  Word for word.

  Or what I thought was word for word.

  The teacher stared at me.

  “Just say here.”

  I thought I had not quoted the announcement accurately enough.

  So I tried again.

  Different phrasing.

  More detail.

  Class laughed.

  She gave me another chance.

  “Say here.”

  I attempted a shorter summary of the announcement.

  Third strike.

  She assumed I was mocking her.

  “Come to the front.”

  I did.

  The rattan landed on my palm in front of everyone.

  First day.

  Public.

  Humiliation branded into memory.

  Standing outside the Year Four classroom now, I almost smiled at the absurdity.

  This time, when my name was called, I said clearly, “Here.”

  Nothing else.

  The teacher nodded.

  No incident.

  Timeline corrected.

  But the teacher was the same.

  Strict.

  Sharp-eyed.

  Minimal tolerance.

  Spelling tests began in Week Two.

  Ten words.

  Nine spelled aloud.

  One unspoken.

  We all knew the structure.

  Study ten.

  During test, she dictates nine.

  We must identify the missing tenth ourselves.

  If you miss one of the first nine.

  One strike.

  If you miss the tenth.

  Three strikes.

  The class lived in quiet dread of the final word.

  It felt like a psychological trap.

  The difficulty curve resembled a boss fight.

  One mistake survivable.

  Final mistake devastating.

  I watched students after the first test.

  Palms red.

  Eyes glossy.

  Some shaking slightly.

  The rattan was not symbolic here either.

  It was force.

  Once, a boy forgot the tenth word.

  She called him forward.

  Three strikes in succession.

  No pause.

  The sound echoed differently when delivered repeatedly.

  He did not cry.

  He clenched his jaw.

  Returned to seat.

  I remembered darker thoughts from that year.

  Moments of despair.

  Moments where the pressure felt disproportionate.

  Where mistakes equaled pain.

  Where a child’s mind spiraled dramatically.

  Standing in Year Four again, I felt the old weight press faintly against my chest.

  But this time, I was not powerless.

  I had memory.

  I had preparation.

  I had contingency plans mapped across dining tables.

  Father was still alive.

  Business still functioning.

  Funds secured.

  Teacher predictable.

  Spelling structure exploitable.

  Nine words spoken.

  One silent.

  Not random.

  Pattern-based.

  I wrote all ten words before she even began dictating.

  Left the tenth blank until the end.

  When she finished the ninth, I scanned the list.

  Identified the missing entry.

  Filled it calmly.

  When she collected papers, I sat still.

  No trembling.

  No panic.

  Pain had once felt absolute.

  Now it felt procedural.

  As the class settled into its new rhythm, I realized something unsettling.

  Small events could be corrected with awareness.

  Large events required structural change.

  I had done what I could.

  Documents aligned.

  Cash secured.

  Relationships formalized.

  Business tightened.

  But fate did not negotiate transparently.

  It revealed itself only in hindsight.

  And Year Four had just begun.