Realisation and Determination:
The door opened with a soft knock. A gentle figure appeared, carrying an ornate tray laden with food—steam rising from covered dishes, the scent of fresh bread and honey filling the air.
"Young lady, I brought your breakfast. Please eat before it gets cold."
I lifted my face to see her fully.
A woman in her late fifties, perhaps approaching sixty. Kind eyes, warm brown and crinkled at the corners with years of smiling. Gray-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun beneath a simple white cap. A caretaker's uniform—crisp and well-maintained, the deep blue fabric marking her as senior household staff.
But I didn't know her name. Didn't know anything about her.
When I first transmigrated five years ago, I'd already been seventeen. By then, she was… gone? Retired? I had no memory of her from that time. Marie had been there—the only person I'd ever let my guard down with, the only one I'd even tried to share my past with.
But this woman? She existed in a part of the timeline I'd never lived through.
And now here she was, looking at me with those kind, patient eyes as I sat collapsed on the floor beside the vanity, tear-stained and trembling.
What should I say? What would the young villainess have said at this age—twelve, maybe thirteen? Before the worst of her crimes? Before she became the monster?
I didn't know. I had no script for this. No memory of who I was supposed to be right now.
"I…" My voice came out small, uncertain. Raw from crying.
"Sorry, I have a stomach ache. Please leave it there."
"Oh my!" Her eyes widened with concern. "Do you need medicine? Perhaps some peppermint tea and ginger root?"
She moved to set the tray down quickly. "Or I'll bring the doctor right away—"
"No, no need." My voice came out sharp, cutting through her worry.
She froze, surprise flickering across her weathered face.
I caught myself. Too harsh. Too different from whatever this young girl would have been like. I softened my tone, forcing the edges smooth. "It's better now. Please."
But she didn't leave. Instead, she came closer, her movements gentle and unhurried. Her hand—warm, calloused from years of work—pressed softly against my forehead.
"Then, it doesn't look like a fever, but your cheeks are red. And your eyes too." She tilted her head, studying my face with the knowing gaze of someone who'd cared for children all her life. "Are you crying, my lady?"
My breath caught. What should I say?
"My mom…" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I remembered her."
And suddenly, my eyes teared up on their own. The emotion wasn't forced—it was real, bubbling up from somewhere deep. Grief for a mother I never knew in this world, mixing with grief for everything I'd lost, everyone I'd left behind. "Sniff."
"Oh…" Her voice softened, gentle as a whisper. "It's been three years since the Madam…"
Her eyes became sad too, a distant pain flickering in their depths—her own memories of the woman surfacing.
But she soon regained her composure, then smiled. Warm. Steady. The kind of smile meant to hold someone together when they're falling apart.
"It's okay, my lady. I'm here with you. All the way."
Her smile and those simple words—even though I was lying, even though this grief wasn't quite what she thought it was—were soothing somehow. Like a balm on a wound I didn't know was still bleeding.
I wiped at my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Think. I needed information. Needed to know when I was, what had happened, what hadn't happened yet.
"Please, bring me my diary," I asked her, my voice still thick with tears.
This girl should definitely have written a diary. Noble daughters always did. And if I was lucky, maybe it would tell me exactly where in the timeline I'd landed.
She moved to a nearby table, opening its small drawer with practiced ease. Her hand emerged holding a diary—red, of course. All of her preferences were red, as always. Red hair, red diary, red everything. The original villainess's signature color.
She placed it gently in my hands.
The leather cover was soft, well-worn from use. I traced my fingers over the surface, feeling the slight texture, the warmth it had absorbed from sitting in the drawer.
I opened it carefully.
The pages were filled with neat handwriting—loops and curves precise and controlled, the script of someone taught by expensive tutors. A young girl's emotions and memories spilled across the paper in careful ink strokes.
My hands trembled slightly as I turned the pages, scanning for dates, for context, for anything that would tell me *when* I was.
The dates blurred before my eyes at first, my vision still swimming with tears. I blinked hard, forcing myself to focus.
I flipped back to the very first page, my fingers careful against the slightly aged paper at the beginning of the book.
The handwriting there was messier—the loops uneven, some letters shaky. A child's hand, barely learning the discipline of formal script.
1467, May 7th
"Mother gave me this diary for my 8th birthday. She asked me to fill this with my happy memories.
Dad gave me a wand as my birthday gift. It's beautiful!"
Eight years old. So innocent. The letters were large and carefully formed, like a child concentrating hard on making each one perfect. A gift from her mother. Meant to be filled with happiness.
I turned more pages, my heart heavy. Scattered entries jumped out at me.
1468, June 26th
"Today we went to the capital. I saw the magical academy. It was huge and there are many students! When I turn 15 I can go there to study.
We visited the royal palace. It was huge and beautiful. One day I get to live there if I married the crown prince. Mom said I have to work hard if I want to do that.
I saw him! He is handsome, but little jerk!"
A small, bitter smile almost tugged at my lips despite everything. That last line—so childish, so normal. An irritated little girl calling a boy names. Dreams of romance and magic and living in a palace someday.
Such innocent dreams.
I flipped further, my throat tightening. The gaps between entries grew longer. The handwriting remained neat but the tone shifted.
1469, February 4th
"Mom was bedridden. Her condition worsening. Mom said I should only fill it with happiness, but I ended up writing this."
Small circular stains dotted the page beneath the words. Droplets. Tears that had fallen as she wrote, absorbed into the paper and dried there—permanent marks of grief.
1469, April 25th
"Father seems too busy. Didn't see him for nearly a month. He is struggling to keep it all from falling apart.
Mom... I Miss you so much!!!"
The letters were jagged, pressed hard into the page. Raw. Broken. The exclamation marks dug into the paper like tiny wounds, the pen nearly tearing through.
I closed the diary for a moment, my own tears falling freely now.
Hot trails down my cheeks, dripping off my chin onto the red leather cover in my lap.
She didn't look like a bad person. Not from these entries. Not from this grief, this love for her mother, this childish excitement about magical academies and birthday gifts and seeing the palace.
Then how? What happened that made her become a villainess?
"Young lady, are you al—"
"I'm okay." I wiped at my tears with the back of my hand, my voice thick. I forced myself to look up at the caretaker, who was watching me with deep concern etched into her weathered features.
I needed to ground myself. Needed more information. "Where is Father?"
"He just left a few hours ago. Earlier this morning." Her voice was gentle, careful. "Said he should attend to an important matter. And will be back before evening."
"Can I join him for dinner?"
"Of course you can." A warm smile spread across her face, crinkling the corners of her kind eyes. "He would love to."
Relief washed through me. I needed to see him. Needed to understand where things stood, what the Count was like at this point in time. Before his crimes. Before the fall.
"Thank you." I clutched the diary tighter against my chest. "Please… leave the tray there. I'll eat in a moment."
She moved to set the breakfast tray on the nearby table, the dishes clinking softly against the ornate silver. Steam still rose from the covered plates, carrying the rich scent of fresh bread and honey butter.
But she didn't leave. Instead, she turned back, her concerned gaze lingering on my tear-stained face, on the way my hands trembled against the red leather diary.
"Are you certain you're alright, my lady? Should I call for—"
"I'm fine. Really." I forced a small smile, though I could feel how weak it was. How unconvincing. "Just… memories of Mother. The diary brings them back."
Understanding softened her features further. She nodded slowly, her own eyes growing misty. "The Madam would be so proud to see you treasuring her gift."
My throat tightened. Would she? Would this woman's mother be proud of what her daughter became?
"Please," I said quietly, "fetch me when Father comes back. I… I'd like to see him as soon as he returns."
"Of course, my lady." She gave a gentle curtsy, her movements slow and practiced, full of the dignity that came from years of loyal service. "I'll inform you the moment the Count arrives."
Her footsteps were soft against the carpet as she crossed to the door. The hinges whispered as it opened, then closed with a soft click, sealing me in silence once more.
I sat there on the floor beside the vanity, the morning light streaming across my small frame, the red diary heavy in my lap.
The breakfast tray sat forgotten on the table, steam gradually fading into the cool air.
I looked down at the diary, my fingers tracing the smooth leather cover. The warmth of it against my palms felt real. Solid. Undeniable.
I needed to know. Needed to understand what happened to turn this grieving, powerless child into the villainess everyone hated. Into the monster Duke Kael hunted down and killed in that cold alley.
I opened it again, my movements careful, reverent almost. The pages fell open to where I'd stopped—that entry about her mother's death.
But I forced myself past it. Forced myself to keep reading. To look for clues, for patterns, for the exact moment everything went wrong.
The entries became more sporadic after her mother's death. Days, sometimes weeks between each one. The handwriting remained neat, but there was a distance to it now. Less childish enthusiasm. More reporting of facts.
I found the next significant entry.
1470, September 15th
"I failed the aptitude test again. The instructor said my magical capacity is zero. Father looked so disappointed. He didn't say anything, but I saw it in his eyes.
All the other noble children could make light orbs or move feathers. I couldn't do anything. They laughed.
Mother said I should work hard to marry the Crown Prince. But how can I, when I can't even do basic magic?"
My chest ached reading those words. The shame bleeding through every carefully formed letter. The desperate, lost question at the end.
Zero magical capacity. I knew about that. When I'd first transmigrated at seventeen, that stigma had already defined her. The powerless Count's daughter. The girl with no magic trying to cling to status through manipulation and schemes.
But this… this was just a ten-year-old child, confused and humiliated. Trying to understand why she was different. Why she'd failed. Why the other children laughed while she stood there, unable to produce even the smallest spark of magic.
I turned the page, my fingers unsteady.
1471, March 3rd
"I've decided. If I can't have magic, I need something else. Father says political alliances matter more than spells anyway.
The Crown Prince won't want someone powerless. So I'll become someone he needs. Someone useful.
I asked Father to teach me about noble houses and their territories. He seemed surprised but pleased."
There it was. The shift. From a child's romantic dream to cold calculation. From wanting to be loved to deciding to become valuable through strategy instead.
The handwriting here was different somehow. Still neat, still controlled, but the letters were more angular. Sharper. Like something hard was forming inside her, crystallizing into determination born from repeated rejection and failure.
This was the beginning. When she stopped being just a grieving child and started becoming… something else.
But even this—this wasn't villainy. This was survival. This was a powerless girl in a world that valued magic above all else, trying to find another way to matter. To fulfill her dead mother's wishes.
So when did it turn dark? When did she start destroying others instead of just building herself up?
I flipped through more pages, scanning for answers. The entries grew even more sparse. Weeks between them. Then months.
1471, August 12th
"Father introduced me to Duke Arvendir's son today. Kael. He's two years older than me. Father says we might be engaged when I'm older."
He barely looked at me. Just nodded politely and left. I don't think he was impressed."
Duke Kael. My breath caught. Even then, even at this age, their paths were already crossing. Already being woven together by their fathers' ambitions.
Even back then, he hadn't seen her. Hadn't cared. Just nodded politely and walked away from the powerless girl his father wanted him to marry.
1470, October 7th
"The Academy sent notice. Students with zero magical capacity cannot enroll. Father argued with them for hours.
I told him it's fine. I don't need the Academy. I'll learn other things.
He looked at me strangely. Like he didn't recognize me."
The pain in those words was buried deep, hidden beneath the matter-of-fact tone. But I could feel it. The resignation. The giving up of yet another dream. The magical academy she'd been so excited about at age nine—denied to her forever.
And her father looking at her like a stranger. Like the cheerful daughter he'd known was being replaced by someone else.
My fingers trembled as I turned to the most recent entries. Getting closer to now. To whatever happened that made me wake up in this body.
1471, November 23rd
"The nobles are harsh. The party went bad. I tripped down.
Head feels dizzy. I returned home halfway, gave up on meeting with the Crown Prince.
I feel dizzy… don't know why, I want to throw up…. Let's see if sleep can solve it. If not, at least…"
The sentence ended there. Abruptly. The pen had trailed off at the end, leaving a small ink mark where it had dragged across the page before falling away.
My blood ran cold.
She'd been at a party. Had tripped—probably in front of everyone, adding humiliation to her growing list of failures. Hit her head hard enough to feel dizzy and nauseous.
Came home early. Gave up on meeting the Crown Prince—gave up on another opportunity, another chance to make herself useful, valuable, needed.
And then wrote this. Feeling sick. Feeling defeated. Feeling like even her body was failing her now.
"Let's see if sleep can solve it. If not, at least…"
At least what?
At least she wouldn't have to face them again tomorrow? At least she wouldn't wake up to another day of shame and failure and being the powerless girl everyone pitied or mocked?
Or something darker. Something more final.
At least she wouldn't have to wake up at all.
My hands trembled so badly the diary nearly slipped from my grasp. I clutched it tighter, my knuckles white against the red leather, my breath coming in short gasps.
This was the last thing she ever wrote.
The last thoughts of a twelve-year-old girl before she went to sleep and never woke up.
Before I woke up in her place.
She'd hit her head. Hard enough to cause dizziness, nausea. Hard enough to… kill her? A delayed injury, bleeding inside her skull while she slept? Or had it been something else? Something about the fall, the trauma, that made her small body give out in the night?
And I had taken her place. Five years later, at seventeen, I'd transmigrated into her body—inheriting a villainess who'd already committed terrible crimes. Who'd already destroyed lives, including the heroine Sara's.
But this girl—this child whose diary I held, whose last desperate words I'd just read—she hadn't done those things yet.
She was just a powerless, grieving girl trying desperately to find her place in a world that had already decided she didn't belong. A world that laughed at her. Rejected her. Dismissed her.
So what happened in the years between? Between this final entry at twelve and the monster she became by seventeen?
What turned her into someone who would destroy Sara? Who would scheme and manipulate and hurt innocent people? Who would become so hated that even her fiancé bought her as a slave just to punish her?
I closed the diary slowly, carefully, my vision blurred with fresh tears that wouldn't stop falling.
The morning sunlight continued to stream through the window, warm and golden and gentle on my skin. Indifferent to the weight of the small red book in my hands.
Indifferent to the question that now burned in my mind, fierce and desperate:
If I'm back at the beginning… can I stop it? Can I prevent her—prevent me—from becoming the villainess at all?
Or am I already too late?
But then another thought crashed into me, stealing the breath from my lungs.
Wait.
My hands tightened on the diary, the leather creaking under my grip.
This girl… this child who lost her mother, who had zero magical capacity, who was rejected and humiliated and slowly crushed by a world that didn't want her…
*I never wrote any of this.*
My heart pounded harder, each beat like a hammer against my ribs.
When I wrote my story—back in my original world, sitting at my desk with my laptop, crafting what I thought was a simple romance—I never gave the villainess a background. Never gave her a childhood. Never gave her a mother who died, or a magical aptitude test she failed, or dreams that were slowly stripped away one by one.
I just made her… the villain. The obstacle. The cruel noble daughter who tormented the heroine because she was jealous. Because she was spoiled. Because she was just *like that.*
Flat. One-dimensional. Evil for the sake of being evil.
I never asked *why*.
"No…" The word came out as a whisper, barely audible. My throat was closing up, my chest constricting painfully.
She became like this because of me.
Because I didn't care enough to write her story. Because I only cared about Sara and the Crown Prince and their romance. Because the villainess was just a tool—something to create conflict, to make the main couple's love seem stronger by comparison.
I never thought about what made her this way. Never considered that she might have been a real person with real pain. Never gave her the depth, the history, the *reason* behind her actions.
And when I transmigrated here… the world filled in what I didn't write. It gave her a mother who died. A magical capacity of zero that made her worthless in this world's eyes. Humiliation after humiliation. Rejection after rejection.
All the pieces that would break a child. That would twist desperation into cruelty. That would turn survival instinct into villainy.
"Is this my atonement?!" The words burst out of me, raw and aching. My voice cracked, rising with each syllable. "Not writing her background with care?!"
The diary trembled In my hands.
"She became like this because of me!!!"
The realization hit like a physical blow. I doubled over, clutching the diary to my chest, my whole body shaking with sobs I couldn't control.
I killed her. Not just at the end—not just by writing a
story where she died in that alley at Duke Kael's hands.
I killed her from the beginning. By not caring. By making
her nothing more than an obstacle. By never asking what pain, what circumstances, what *life* would create someone capable of such cruelty.
The tears soaked into the red leather, adding my own
droplets to the ones she'd left on the pages inside.
But slowly—slowly—something else began to rise through the grief and guilt.
A question. Different from before.
Can I change her fate with my own two hands?
I lifted my head, staring at nothing, my breath still
hitching with sobs.
This time… this time I'm here from the beginning. Before the
worst happens. Before she becomes the monster everyone fears. Before she destroys Sara. Before Father's crimes are exposed. Before Duke Kael learns to hate her.
This time, I know what's coming.
The diary felt warm in my hands. Solid. Real.
My fingers curled around it, tightening with something that
felt like determination.
Can I change this outcome?
The question echoed in my mind, taking root, growing
stronger.
The morning light shifted slightly, the beam stretching
across the floor toward where I sat. Dust motes danced in the golden glow, suspended and weightless.
I wiped at my face with shaking hands, tears still streaming
but my jaw setting with resolve.
I will.
I will change it.
I have to.
Because if I don't—if I let everything happen the same way,
knowing what I know now, understanding what I understand now—then I'm not just guilty of careless writing.
I'm guilty of choosing to let it happen all over again.
The red diary pressed against my chest, over my racing
heart.
This child deserved better than what I gave her. Better than
being just a villain in someone else's love story. Better than a tragic backstory that led nowhere but cruelty and death.
And maybe—maybe—this impossible second chance wasn't just punishment or mercy.
Maybe it was an opportunity.
To write a different story. A better one.
To give her—to give *us*—the ending we never had.
"I will," I whispered again to the empty room, my voice
stronger now despite the tears. "I'll change everything."
The sunlight continued to pour through the window, warm and steady, as if bearing witness to the promise.
***