The coffin had a glass panel above it.

  I remember that detail vividly from my previous life.

  You could stand over it and look down, as if observing someone asleep in a display case. My father lay inside, dressed neatly, hands folded across his chest, expression calm. Too calm.

  The first time I experienced this scene, I genuinely thought it was a prank.

  Parents dying belonged to television dramas. It was a narrative device. A tragic plot accelerator. Something that happened to fictional protagonists so they could unlock emotional growth arcs.

  Not to me.

  Not at the end of Year 4.

  Not when I was still small enough that my feet didn’t fully touch the ground when I sat on a chair.

  In that previous timeline, the last thing I remembered was angrily hanging up on his call.

  The next thing I knew, I was staring at him inside a coffin.

  The transition was violent.

  No buffer.

  No preparation.

  Just shock.

  I remember leaning over the glass and whispering, “Wake up.”

  I truly believed he was sleeping.

  When there was no response, I repeated it louder.

  Still nothing.

  It didn’t take long for reality to rearrange itself into something irreversible.

  Dead.

  The word entered like cold water poured down the spine.

  I broke down quickly that day. Loudly. Unfiltered sobbing that came from somewhere deep and primal. I cried not just because he was gone, but because I didn’t understand how something so permanent could happen so suddenly.

  And then strangers—unknown adults—surrounded me.

  They tried to comfort me.

  I didn’t even know who they were.

  Later I would learn they were my father’s sons and daughters from his first marriage.

  This time, when the same scene unfolded, the environment felt familiar.

  The incense smoke.

  The low murmur of condolences.

  The faint hum of air-conditioning trying to hold the room together.

  He lay in the same stillness.

  But I was not the same child.

  I stood over the glass and looked down at him.

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  Peaceful.

  Prepared.

  We had spoken.

  We had planned.

  We had closed the loops.

  There was no unfinished sentence hanging between us.

  The sadness was there, but it was quieter. Like a steady rain instead of a thunderstorm.

  Not long after the ceremony began, they arrived.

  Several adults.

  Well-dressed. Composed.

  Their features carried faint similarities to mine—angles of the jaw, shapes of the eyes—but older, more defined.

  My half-siblings.

  In my previous life, I had no idea they existed until that day.

  The revelation stacked on top of grief.

  He had another family.

  As a child, that knowledge felt destabilizing.

  This time, I understood the timeline.

  His first wife had passed away due to illness. By the time he met my mother, his children were already grown. Independent. Capable.

  He chose to build a second family not out of betrayal, but out of continuation.

  Life insists on moving forward.

  They approached the coffin quietly.

  One by one, they paid their respects.

  Some bowed their heads longer than others.

  None of them cried loudly.

  Adults rarely do.

  When they turned toward me, I could see confusion in their eyes.

  This was the son from the second family.

  The late addition.

  The small boy standing straighter than expected.

  They offered words of comfort.

  I nodded politely.

  “Be strong.”

  “Yes.”

  “Take care of your mother.”

  “I will.”

  There was an awkwardness when they interacted with my mother.

  Polite.

  Measured.

  Like colleagues at a formal event who weren’t sure which tone was appropriate.

  It struck me again that they likely had not known much about her presence in his later years. Their lives were already built elsewhere—careers, professions, stability.

  They looked successful.

  Well-spoken.

  Grounded.

  I suppose my father’s genes were indeed strong.

  And perhaps that was why he never worried about them.

  They were already self-sustaining.

  His focus in the final stretch of life had been us.

  In my previous life, I cried until my chest hurt.

  This time, I did not.

  Not because I loved him less.

  But because I had already grieved in advance.

  Grief, when anticipated, changes shape.

  It becomes acceptance before impact.

  The adults seemed slightly unsettled by my composure.

  A child who doesn’t cry at his father’s funeral disrupts expectations.

  They hovered near me, waiting for the breakdown.

  It never came.

  I bowed when required.

  Accepted condolences.

  Stood beside my mother.

  No dramatic collapse.

  No uncontrollable sobbing.

  Just stillness.

  Inside, I was honoring him differently.

  When the visitors thinned out and the hall quieted, I went home and did something deliberate.

  I took out the Game Boy he bought me at the end of Primary Year 3.

  I had insisted on recreating that purchase exactly as before. No deviations.

  The cartridge clicked into place.

  The familiar startup chime filled the room.

  It was Pokémon Ruby.

  Within that game was a small casino section.

  Just a side activity.

  Optional.

  Pointless, really.

  But my father loved it.

  Almost every evening, he would ask, “Open the casino part.”

  He would sit beside me, eyes fixed on the pixelated slot machines, pressing buttons as if real stakes were involved.

  Back then, I hated it.

  I thought he was being childish.

  Addicted to simulated gambling with no monetary reward.

  I would sigh dramatically and wait for him to finish so I could return to actual gameplay.

  This time, I let him play as much as he wanted.

  Every spin.

  Every near-win.

  Every pointless repetition.

  Because I knew his time was limited.

  And now, sitting alone with the Game Boy in my hands, I navigated to that same casino screen.

  The 8-bit music looped cheerfully.

  I pressed the buttons slowly.

  Not to win.

  But to remember.

  The funeral concluded.

  My half-siblings left one by one.

  No promises of reunion.

  No exchange of numbers.

  No dramatic declarations of staying in touch.

  Just polite nods and distance.

  And that was fine.

  If it were meant to be close, it would have been cultivated long ago.

  Relationships cannot be forced into existence by shared DNA alone.

  As they disappeared from my life a second time, I felt no resentment.

  Only clarity.

  We belonged to different chapters of the same man’s story.

  That was enough.

  That night, I stood by the window.

  Year 4 was over.

  My father was gone.

  Year 5 would begin elsewhere, as planned.

  In my first life, this moment felt like being a ping pong ball—struck back and forth by adults wielding rackets, directionless and reactive.

  This time, even in loss, I did not feel struck.

  I felt positioned.

  Prepared.

  He had done everything he could before departing.

  And I had done everything I could before saying goodbye.

  Some things cannot be changed.

  But regrets?

  Those can be reduced.

  And that alone made all the difference.