Year 4 ended the way it was always meant to.

  Results posted.

  Names ranked.

  My name comfortably within the top five of the entire school.

  Again.

  The temple awarded me a few hundred dollars for academic excellence, just like before. The envelope was red, the paper crisp, the applause polite but warm. On the surface, everything looked triumphant.

  But this would be the last time.

  In my previous life, I didn’t know it was the last award I would ever receive in that school. I didn’t know Year 5 and Year 6 would unfold somewhere else. I didn’t know my father was already dying upstairs while I compared Game Boy cartridges with friends downstairs.

  Back then, life felt random.

  Now it felt scripted.

  And I was trying very hard not to deviate too far from the original manuscript.

  I sometimes imagine an alternate branch.

  One where I remained in the same school through Year 6.

  Potter would still sit near me.

  The class dynamics would evolve.

  Cliques would form.

  And based on what I learned years later, something uglier would have taken root.

  When Potter organized a class reunion as adults, I attended out of curiosity.

  I barely recognized anyone.

  They, however, remembered everything.

  Including how, in the later years of primary school, they coordinated to bully a classmate. Not spontaneous teasing. Coordinated. Strategic. Systematic exclusion.

  They laughed about it.

  Like veterans reminiscing over a harmless prank.

  I sat there quietly.

  If I had stayed, I might have joined them.

  Not because I was cruel.

  But because children are terrified of being isolated.

  To survive socially, you align with the majority.

  I know myself.

  I would have rationalized it.

  Better to be inside the circle than outside it.

  The guilt never belonged to me because I was transferred abruptly after Year 4 in my previous life.

  This time, I planned it that way again.

  If fate insisted that I leave after Year 4, I would leave.

  Better a known tragedy than an unknown corruption.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  So I asked my father to prepare the narrative early.

  At the start of Year 5, I would “transfer for better academic opportunities.”

  Clean.

  Simple.

  Predictable.

  Upstairs, reality was deteriorating.

  Father no longer moved around the house with the same forceful presence. His footsteps, once heavy and assured, were replaced by long hours of silence.

  A private doctor began visiting the house regularly.

  Medicine bottles lined the bedside table.

  The air upstairs carried a sterile smell.

  In my previous life, I avoided that room.

  I didn’t understand.

  Or maybe I didn’t want to.

  This time, I sat beside him.

  No Game Boy.

  No distractions.

  Just presence.

  He didn’t need to hide the truth anymore.

  And he didn’t need to compress everything into one desperate phone call I would angrily hang up on.

  That memory still haunted me.

  The call.

  His attempt to explain.

  My childish frustration.

  The dial tone.

  The finality.

  Not this time.

  One evening, as sunlight thinned into orange across the curtains, he motioned for me to sit closer.

  “Zack.”

  His voice was softer now. Not weak. Just… economical.

  “I guess some things can’t be changed.”

  The words landed heavily between us.

  I stayed quiet.

  “I tried,” he continued with a faint smile. “I really wanted to wait until 2020 with you.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted.

  “See the crash. Buy everything cheap.”

  I swallowed.

  “We prepared,” I said carefully. “The funds are separated. The accounts are secure.”

  He nodded.

  Over the past year, we had done what most adults take decades to organize.

  He had restructured assets.

  Liquidated non-essential holdings.

  Created a clean legal pathway for wealth transfer directly to my mother, with clear guardianship provisions to prevent interference from extended relatives or so-called “best friends.”

  He had even documented specific instructions in writing — not just a will, but explanatory letters.

  “I sold the business,” he said quietly.

  I looked up.

  He had built that plumbing company from scratch. Years of early mornings. Negotiations. Risk.

  “To who?”

  “A competitor. Honest man. Paid fair price.” He exhaled slowly. “Better than leaving you and your mother something you don’t understand.”

  It was true.

  Neither my mother nor I knew anything about managing plumbing contracts, supplier credit cycles, or chasing overdue payments.

  In my previous life, unpaid debts strangled the business after his passing. Clients delayed payments. Cash flow collapsed. Equipment loans piled up. The “friends” who promised to help gradually positioned themselves to extract value.

  This time, there would be no loose ends.

  No operational liabilities.

  Just liquid capital.

  “I checked the buyer carefully,” Father added. “No outstanding lawsuits. Strong balance sheet. Good reputation.”

  Of course he did.

  Even in decline, he was still thinking five steps ahead.

  “The transfer papers are completed,” he continued. “Funds are already moved.”

  He looked at me steadily.

  “If anything happens… it goes directly to your mother. No middlemen.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  “I know,” he said.

  That hurt more than doubt would have.

  Silence settled between us.

  But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

  It was dense.

  Full.

  He studied my face.

  “You’re different,” he said.

  I froze for a fraction of a second.

  “More mature.”

  I forced a small grin. “Maybe Year 4 teacher trained me well.”

  He chuckled — a real one.

  Then his expression softened.

  “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”

  The sentence cracked something inside me.

  “You stayed long enough,” I replied, though my throat tightened.

  He reached for my hand.

  His grip was weaker than I remembered, but the warmth was still there.

  “Whatever happens,” he said, “don’t let bitterness guide your decisions. Money is important. Security is important. But don’t become cold.”

  I thought about the dollars I refused to spend.

  About calculating Bitcoin’s future value in my head like a machine.

  About measuring affection in opportunity cost.

  I didn’t answer immediately.

  Instead, I squeezed his hand back.

  “I’ll try.”

  That was the most honest promise I could give.

  In the following weeks, preparations completed quietly.

  Legal documents finalized.

  Accounts structured.

  Insurance confirmed.

  Business sold.

  There was no chaos.

  No frantic scrambling.

  No mysterious disappearance of funds.

  When the inevitable approached, it approached a household already braced.

  One night, as machines hummed softly in the background and the doctor stepped out of the room with lowered eyes, I felt it.

  Not shock.

  Not disbelief.

  Just the quiet recognition of a checkpoint reached.

  He looked at me one last time.

  Not frightened.

  Not regretful.

  Just tired.

  “This is it, Zack.”

  I nodded.

  “Yes.”

  We both knew.

  And when he closed his eyes, it did not feel like the world flipping violently out of control the way it did in my previous life.

  It felt like a planned departure.

  Painful.

  But prepared.

  Downstairs, the house was silent.

  Upstairs, an era ended.

  Year 5 would begin in another school.

  As designed.

  Some things couldn’t be changed.

  But this time, we met them ready.