Before my father passed away, I made him a promise.

  I told him I would try my best to keep the original events as intact as possible. This second life was not meant for reckless experimentation. It was meant for refinement. Re-exploration. A careful re-walk along the same road, but with steadier footing.

  Of course, part of that restraint came from fear.

  What if I deviated too much?

  What if by pulling one thread too hard, the entire tapestry of the future unraveled?

  What if the 2020 crash never happened?

  What if Bitcoin never came into existence?

  What if one tiny interference created a world where the opportunities I remembered simply vanished?

  I could never be certain.

  So I followed instinct. Better not to tamper excessively with events that did not need fixing.

  The only events I intended to change were the ones that wounded us beyond repair.

  I asked my father to obtain Monica’s contact from my mother. He did so while he was still relatively strong, while conversations did not exhaust him. We spoke at length, the three of us, about practical matters.

  In my previous life, the double storey landed house that had been our first home was eventually sold.

  Not by us willingly.

  But by my father’s so called close friends.

  They betrayed him for financial incentive, even in death. They positioned themselves as helpers. Advisors. Executors. Then they quietly absorbed most of the proceeds from the sale.

  Even after my mother begged.

  Even after she explained that the money was meant for her child’s survival.

  There are limits that should not be crossed. Inheritance meant for descendants should be sacred. But conscience dissolves quickly when the numbers become large enough.

  This time, the house would not be sold.

  I knew the future value of landed property. I knew how unreachable it would become for ordinary people. Selling it would be foolish. Renting it out was the smarter move.

  We no longer wished to continue living in such a large house anyway. After my father’s condition worsened, the house felt different.

  Too spacious.

  Too hollow.

  Only two people inside its walls.

  Sometimes at night, silence echoed in strange ways. When a structure becomes too large for its occupants, it begins to feel sentient. As if the corridors stretch longer than they should. As if something watches from the unlit staircase.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Perhaps it was just grief playing tricks on perception.

  Perhaps not.

  In the original timeline, Monica urged my mother to relocate to an apartment near her own unit. She was practical and sharp minded. She secured a ground floor unit for us. She herself stayed on the ground floor as well.

  No waiting for lifts.

  No fear of malfunctioning elevators.

  No dependence on mechanical systems.

  Convenience is an underrated form of security.

  That apartment would become the place I stayed for as long as I could remember.

  Time passed.

  Primary Year 5 arrived.

  Transfer completed.

  New school.

  This school was different.

  Tougher.

  When I say tougher, I mean conquerable but not easily conquered. And I always aimed to conquer. Not out of arrogance alone, but out of strategy. Top 10 in the entire school was my minimum target.

  Here, that ambition felt absurd.

  The top students were terrifying.

  Near perfect scores across every subject. Mathematics, Science, Language, everything polished to a sharp edge. They were not merely hardworking. They were precise.

  Worse still, I did not receive the privileges I once enjoyed.

  The headmaster followed strict procedure. No special placement. No fast tracking into the top class. I was assigned to a middle tier class.

  Fine by me.

  It is satisfying to rise from within.

  The school itself was enormous.

  The entrance alone had towering gates painted deep navy blue, iron bars thick enough to suggest permanence. The assembly ground stretched wide enough to host what felt like a small stadium event. Rows of classrooms formed long rectangular blocks connected by covered walkways that zigzagged like arteries.

  Every corridor seemed identical.

  Cream colored walls.

  Grey tiled floors.

  Notice boards filled with competition results and examination statistics.

  There were multiple staircases, each leading to different wings. The canteen was large enough to house over a dozen stalls. The library had glass panels that reflected sunlight like a corporate office building.

  Even with the memory of having studied here once before, I got lost.

  Direction has never been my strength. Even as a 31 year old adult in my previous life, I relied heavily on maps and landmarks. As a child again, navigating this architectural maze was humbling.

  After asking two prefects and one mildly annoyed teacher for directions, I finally found my destination.

  5T.

  The naming system was obvious. The closer the letter was to A, the stronger the class. T was nowhere near the top.

  When I stepped inside, something stirred in memory.

  In my previous life, I had walked into this very classroom with arrogance thick in my throat.

  The first thing I asked, without greeting, without introduction, was a question delivered like a challenge.

  Who is the number 1 in here? Let me meet him or her.

  The class stared at me.

  Then someone pointed.

  There, they said. His nickname is Fat Chicken.

  I remember the boy clearly.

  Chubby. Round cheeks. Small eyes that curved upward when he smiled. He noticed me staring and approached with friendliness, extending his hand.

  Hi, I’m—

  Fat Chicken, I interrupted.

  I genuinely thought it was his actual name.

  The laughter that erupted was explosive.

  His smile froze.

  The misunderstanding began in that exact second.

  Three years of awkward tension followed. From Primary Year 5 all the way into Secondary Year 1, that careless utterance shadowed every interaction. What began as ignorance hardened into resentment. What could have been friendship became rivalry edged with embarrassment.

  Now, standing at the doorway again in this second life, I felt the weight of that memory pressing against my ribs.

  I did not repeat the same mistake.

  Instead of demanding to meet the top student, I introduced myself properly. Calmly. Polite.

  The chubby boy was still there. Same seat. Same round face. Same cautious curiosity.

  This time, when someone whispered his nickname, I did not echo it.

  I extended my hand first.

  Hi. I’m new here. Nice to meet you.

  He shook my hand.

  His real name sounded far better than the nickname ever did.

  History, I had learned, is fragile.

  Some events deserve preservation.

  Others deserve correction.

  This one, I intended to rewrite.