Breakfast tasted like grief.
Not because the food was bad, it was warm rice and soup and side dishes her mother made out of habit, the kind of meal Seo-yeon had once considered ordinary and later spent years aching for.
It tasted like grief because every bite came with the knowledge that she had lost this before.
She sat at the table with her hands folded in her lap, watching her parents move around the kitchen as if she were watching a scene from someone else's life.
Her mother fussed over the soup.
Her father complained about the news.
Everything was normal.
That was the most terrifying part.
Because normal was what she'd had right before the accident.
And normal was what she'd never valued until it was gone.
Her father folded his newspaper with a snap.
"You're staring again," he said, voice not unkind, just blunt. "Eat."
Seo-yeon looked down at her bowl.
Her spoon trembled slightly.
"Okay," she said, forcing her voice steady.
Her mother placed more food on her plate.
"You've been thin lately," her mother scolded softly. "Eatproperly."
Seo-yeon swallowed.
Thin.
In her first life, she had been thin in the way poor people were thin, because hunger was cheaper than living.
She stared at her mother's hands.
Hands that were still warm.
Hands that would go cold if she failed.
Her chest tightened.
She couldn't breathe too deeply, like breathing too deeply would make the moment real enough to break.
She needed facts.
Not feelings.
Her eyes flicked toward the edge of the table.
There, her father's keys.
Metal on wood.
A tiny, ordinary object.
But to her it was a gun on the table.
Her throat tightened.
She forced herself to speak.
"What day is it?" she asked.
Her mother paused mid-motion.
"What?" she said, surprised. "Why are you asking that?"
Seo-yeon's fingers clenched under the table.
"Just..." she tried, then swallowed. "Ijustwant to know."
Her father frowned.
"You hit your head or something? It's June 12."
June 12.
The number landed like a verdict.
Seo-yeon smiled-small, stiff, wrong.
"Right," she said, as if she hadn't expected that answer.
As if her entire body wasn't screaming.
Her mother studied her face.
"Seo-yeon," she said carefully, "are you stressed about school? Is something happening?"
Seo-yeon shook her head quickly.
"No," she said, too fast. "Nothing."
Her father grunted.
"Kids these days. Everything's 'stress.' Just eat and go."
Seo-yeon nodded again.
She stood up suddenly, unable to sit still.
"I'm going to school early," she said.
Her mother blinked. "Early?"
Seo-yeon forced another smile.
"Ijust..." she tried to sound casual. "Iwanttoreview."
Her mother's expression softened.
"That's good," she said, pleased. "Take an umbrella. It might rain later."
Rain.
Seo-yeon's stomach turned.
She grabbed her bag and walked to the door as if nothing was wrong.
But when her hand touched the doorknob, she paused.
She looked back.
Her parents were still there.
Her father sipping soup.
Her mother cleaning the counter.
Alive.
Seo-yeon's throat tightened so hard it hurt.
In her first life, she had left the house on mornings like this without a thought. She had assumed they would always be there. That she could always come back.
She had been wrong.
Seven days.
Only seven days.
She stepped outside, sunlight too bright, air too clean, as if the world was mocking her.
She walked toward school, her mind working faster than it had in years.
Where were they going on June 19?
Why did they drive?
What road did they take?
What time did it happen?
She couldn't remember.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Because a second chance wasn't a gift if she didn't know how to use it.
Her hands clenched around her bag strap.
Seven days wasn't time.
It was a deadline.
And she refused to lose again.