In my previous life in Year 6, they called me Wolverine. Not because of anything heroic, but because I was hot-tempered. Anyone who dared provoke me quickly learned what it meant to have a small human with sharp instincts and nails pointing upwards, naturally. Perfect for slashing. Unlike everyone else, whose nails lay flat after being trimmed, mine seemed almost predestined for damage.

  One day, Calvin, a boy in my class, decided to test me relentlessly. He mocked me over and over, ignoring every subtle warning in my eyes, every muscle tension in my arms. I tried to hold back. I really did. But after what felt like eternity, I snapped. Slash after slash, I left marks across his uniform, his body covered in small wounds, his shirt torn. Not life-threatening, but certainly alarming enough that anyone walking by would have raised an eyebrow.

  The bus driver, who I have long suspected to be cursed, made the strangest decision. She didn’t call my mother. She didn’t intervene. She simply dropped me off at Calvin’s house. Alone. My legs shook like tofu. I gripped my schoolbag tightly, my throat dry. What if his father was insane? What if he decided to unleash punishment beyond my imagination?

  I rang the doorbell. Calvin’s father opened the door. He was tall, imposing, a man whose presence could silence a room. My heart hammered. I expected shouting. I expected physical reprimand. Maybe even a lecture that would leave me trembling for weeks.

  Instead, he looked at me and said, calmly, “The final exam is coming. You could have been barred from it. You could have been sued. But I am not going to do that. I am giving you a chance. Do not repeat the same mistake.”

  No anger. No intimidation. No lecture that made me squirm in shame. He simply let me go.

  I didn’t understand it at the time. How could one act of simple kindness outweigh the fear and pain of a hundred threats? But it did. That moment changed me. I stopped resorting to violence. I became gentler. I learned that not everything needed to be solved through pain or discomfort. Kindness had power too.

  Now, sitting in Year 6, second row, I looked at Calvin again. He had grown slightly taller. He was calmer. The memory of that day flashed in my mind. A thought hit me. I had never thanked his father properly. Not in my previous life. I had carried that gratitude silently, unexpressed, for years.

  And now, I could do it. I could manufacture an excuse to visit Calvin’s house. This time, I would make sure his father was there. I wanted to thank him. Properly.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  During lunch break, I approached Calvin.

  “Hey, Calvin,” I said casually, trying to sound nonchalant.

  He looked at me suspiciously. “What do you want?”

  “I was thinking,” I said, pretending to pause thoughtfully, “maybe we could work together on the final exam review after school. You know, two heads are better than one.”

  Calvin’s eyes narrowed. “You mean like a study session?”

  “Exactly,” I said, giving a small smile. “At your place. Your parents let you have study sessions there, right?”

  He looked doubtful, but after a moment, shrugged. “Sure. Mom and Dad usually don’t mind.”

  That evening, I arrived at his house, my heart racing. Calvin’s mother opened the door, smiling.

  “Oh, come in,” she said warmly. “Calvin told us you were coming to study.”

  Inside, I caught sight of his father in the living room, reading a newspaper. I swallowed nervously.

  “Sir,” I said, bowing slightly. “I… I wanted to thank you. For what happened back then. How you treated me after the bus incident. It… it changed me. It made me realize that kindness can be stronger than fear. You shaped me into a better person without even knowing it. I wanted to thank you properly.”

  His father looked up, blinking.

  “You… what?” he said.

  “I know it must sound strange,” I continued, feeling a little embarrassed. “But I’ve carried that gratitude with me for a long time. And now, I can say it aloud. Thank you. Truly.”

  Calvin’s father put down the newspaper slowly. His eyes were wide, unsure how to process this twelve-year-old standing in front of him, speaking with sincerity and conviction.

  “Well… uh…” he began. “That is… unusual. I mean, I appreciate the words, but… are you okay? Did something happen recently?”

  I shook my head. “No, sir. Everything’s fine. I just… wanted to say it.”

  He gave me a small smile, still bewildered. “Well… that’s very thoughtful of you. Not many kids would come to their classmate’s house just to say thank you. I’m impressed.”

  Calvin looked at me sideways, confused, as if asking silently why I was being so serious.

  I turned to him and said lightly, “See? Being gentle can be just as effective as slashing.”

  He laughed, awkwardly. “Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

  His father chuckled quietly, still shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what world you come from, but… thank you for saying that. That means a lot.”

  And just like that, a chapter of my past found closure.

  Walking home afterward, I felt lighter. A small, permanent shift had occurred. I had acknowledged something that had long been buried, and in doing so, had cemented one more lesson from my second life. Sometimes, the most powerful victories are the ones without blood, without competition, without awards. They are victories of gratitude and understanding.

  I glanced at the horizon. Year 6 was just beginning. And somehow, I knew that this time, I could face it with a little more patience, a little more wisdom, and the knowledge that sometimes kindness is the sharpest weapon of all.