Chapter 2

A sharp, sudden gasp for air.

My eyes flew open. I wasn't in the hospice. I was in my own living room, the one with the worn floral sofa and the sun-faded curtains. The scent of my famous pot roast hung in the air, thick and comforting.

My body felt... whole. The gnawing pain in my gut was gone. I looked down at my hands. They were wrinkled, yes, but they were my hands, not the skeletal claws they had become.

The front doorbell rang.

The sound sent a jolt through me. I knew that ring. It was the moment it all started. The day I met Chloe.

Ethan walked in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He was younger, his face not yet hardened by the greed I would later come to know.

"That must be her," he said, a charming smile playing on his lips. "Be nice, Mom."

He opened the door. And there she was. Chloe.

She looked just as I remembered, a young nursing student with kind eyes and a nervous smile. She was holding a small, gift-wrapped box.

My old hatred flared up, hot and immediate. This was the girl who left me to die.

But then, something strange happened. As she stepped inside, a voice echoed in my head. It was quiet, anxious, and it wasn't my own.

Oh god, I hope she likes it. Ethan said his mom only respects expensive brands, but this vintage silver locket was all I could afford from the antique mall after saving for months. I hope she doesn't think it's cheap. Ethan said she'd be offended if I didn't bring a gift.

I stared at her, my mind reeling.

I could hear her thoughts.

The thought was so clear, so full of genuine worry, that it completely short-circuited my rage. It was like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.

In my last life, Ethan had told me a different story.

"She brought some cheap drugstore perfume, can you believe it?" he'd said, laughing with disgust. "And then she had the nerve to whisper to me that the house felt small."

Chloe held out the small box to me. "It's so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Miller. This is for you."

I took the box, my fingers trembling slightly. I opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of cotton, was a beautiful, antique silver locket. It was delicate and obviously chosen with care. It was not cheap drugstore perfume.

I looked from the locket to Chloe's hopeful face, then to my son's smiling one.

For the first time, a tiny crack appeared in the foundation of my hatred.