Regret rarely announces itself loudly.

  It hides in small decisions.

  Primary One.

  In my first timeline, I was already known as one of the stronger students in class. Consistent marks. Clean exercise books. Answers delivered without hesitation.

  Teachers like predictability.

  Predictable excellence earns quiet attention.

  One afternoon, after class, my form teacher called my name softly.

  “Stay back for a moment.”

  The classroom emptied slowly. Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Noise faded.

  When we were alone, she lowered her voice.

  “There will be a storytelling performance during assembly next month.”

  She paused.

  “I would like you to represent the class.”

  Not the class.

  The school.

  It would be performed in the assembly hall.

  All levels present.

  Hundreds of students.

  Teachers.

  The principal.

  The title was simple.

  The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

  Even at six years old, I knew the story.

  A shepherd boy repeatedly lies about a wolf attacking his flock. Villagers rush to help him each time. When the real wolf finally comes, no one believes him. The sheep are lost.

  A moral wrapped in embarrassment.

  In my first timeline, when she offered it to me privately like that, I felt the weight of scale immediately.

  Facing thirty classmates was manageable.

  Facing the entire school was not.

  The hall felt enormous. The echo intimidating. The idea of hundreds of eyes fixed on me felt suffocating.

  “Do you want to try?” she asked gently.

  I hesitated.

  Then I shook my head.

  “I don’t want.”

  She nodded, not forcing it. She offered the opportunity to someone else.

  On performance day, I sat among the students and watched another boy take the stage.

  I clapped.

  But something small and bitter settled inside me.

  I knew I had refused not because I could not do it.

  But because I was afraid.

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  Now, in this second timeline, events aligned again.

  Academic results remained strong. Tests returned with high marks. Teachers’ eyes lingered slightly longer on my papers.

  Consistency builds reputation quietly.

  Then one afternoon, just like before, she approached my desk as classmates packed their bags.

  “Stay back for a moment.”

  The air felt familiar.

  After the classroom cleared, she sat across from me.

  “There will be a storytelling performance next month during assembly.”

  A pause.

  “I am selecting one student based on overall academic performance and confidence in class.”

  Her eyes met mine.

  “I would like you to perform The Boy Who Cried Wolf.”

  There it was.

  The same crossroad.

  But now I could see both timelines at once.

  One where I shrank.

  One where I stepped forward.

  Fear did not vanish simply because I remembered it.

  My stomach still tightened.

  But this time I recognized the voice.

  Avoid pain.

  Avoid exposure.

  Avoid risk.

  “I will do it,” I said.

  She smiled slightly.

  “Good. I think you will do very well.”

  The day of assembly arrived.

  The hall was cavernous to a six year old. The ceiling lights seemed impossibly high. Rows upon rows of students filled the space in neat lines. The microphone stood in the center of the stage, thin and upright, almost as tall as my chest.

  As I stepped up, the feedback from the mic screeched slightly.

  A ripple of laughter spread across the hall.

  Good, I thought.

  Energy.

  I adjusted the mic dramatically, gripping it with both hands as if it were a shepherd’s staff.

  I began softly.

  “There was once… a shepherd boy…”

  I hunched slightly, pretending to hold an invisible stick, scanning the horizon.

  “He was very bored.”

  I exaggerated the word bored, dragging it out until students in the front row began giggling.

  I paced slowly across the stage, squinting into the imaginary distance.

  “Every day, he watched the sheep.”

  I leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially into the mic.

  “Very boring sheep.”

  Laughter grew louder.

  Then I suddenly straightened and shouted at full volume.

  “WOLF! WOLF!”

  I ran across the stage, waving one arm wildly.

  “There is a wolf attacking my sheep!”

  I mimicked villagers running.

  “Oh no! Where? Where?”

  I switched voices, higher pitch for villagers.

  “Quick! Grab the sticks!”

  I dashed to the other side of the stage, panting dramatically.

  The hall erupted in laughter.

  Then I froze.

  Silence.

  I grinned mischievously into the mic.

  “April fool.”

  Even though April had nothing to do with it.

  The absurdity worked.

  Laughter rolled through the hall.

  I paced again.

  “The villagers were angry.”

  I deepened my voice.

  “Don’t lie again.”

  Then I shifted back to the boy.

  “But he was bored.”

  I emphasized bored again, dragging the word even longer this time, leaning backward theatrically as if fainting from monotony.

  The second fake alarm was louder.

  “WOLF! WOLF! THIS TIME REALLY!”

  I dropped to my knees dramatically.

  Teachers near the side exchanged amused glances.

  I ran in tight circles around the mic stand, pretending chaos.

  Then I stopped abruptly.

  Silence again.

  “No wolf.”

  The third act slowed down deliberately.

  I lowered my voice.

  “One day…”

  I walked slowly to the center.

  “The real wolf came.”

  I crouched low, narrowing my eyes.

  I shifted into a growling tone.

  “Grrrr…”

  I stalked across the stage, pretending to be the wolf now.

  Children gasped.

  Then I snapped back into the boy.

  “WOLF! WOLF! PLEASE HELP!”

  This time my voice cracked intentionally.

  I ran from one side of the stage to the other, looking toward the imaginary village.

  “Why nobody coming?”

  I waited.

  I scanned the hall dramatically.

  No one moved.

  I lowered my shoulders.

  “The villagers heard him.”

  I deepened my voice again.

  “But they said…”

  I crossed my arms.

  “He is lying again.”

  I let silence hang for two full seconds.

  Then softly:

  “And the wolf ate the sheep.”

  I paused.

  Then straightened up.

  “When you lie too many times, people stop believing you. Even when you tell the truth.”

  I did not shout the moral.

  I spoke it calmly.

  The contrast landed stronger.

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then applause.

  Not scattered.

  Full.

  Students clapped loudly. Some even cheered. Teachers smiled openly. My form teacher’s expression was one of satisfied validation.

  As I bowed, I realized something amusing.

  In my first life, I had feared embarrassment.

  But on that stage, I had practically manufactured it deliberately.

  Running.

  Shouting.

  Switching voices excessively.

  Overacting with the confidence of someone who understood that children forgive exaggeration.

  In fact, they reward it.

  As I walked off stage, slightly breathless, I did not feel relief.

  I felt amusement.

  The scale that once terrified me now felt manageable.

  The hall was still large.

  The audience still numerous.

  But fear shrinks once faced.

  In my first timeline, I had cried wolf internally about the danger of humiliation.

  This time, I let the wolf come.

  And it turned out to be applause.

  Regret does not disappear by time alone.

  It disappears when you walk back into the exact moment that created it and choose differently.

  Primary One had given me the same door twice.

  The first time, I stepped back.

  The second time, I ran across the stage with a microphone in hand.