1.0 — The Weight of a Failing Body
The hospital room was wrapped in a silence so heavy it was almost suffocating.
Not the gentle calm of an early morning, but a crushing stillness that made every breath feel like an accomplishment. Machines beeped in a slow, clinical rhythm, counting down the fragile remnants of my existence.
Seventeen years of laughter, ordinary school days, fleeting friendships, and quiet moments of joy had all narrowed down to this: a bed, white walls, and the steady beeping of a monitor tracking a body that no longer obeyed me.
My limbs felt foreign. My ribs ached like something was tightening around them from the inside. Even my chest, once vibrant with life, felt hollow and weak.
The doctors called it "rapidly progressing," "rare."
But I didn't need their words to understand the truth.
My body had been betraying me for months—stealing my energy, my joy, and finally, the hope I once burned with.
I remembered the first day symptoms appeared: the exhaustion that never faded, the stubborn coughing fits, the nights lying awake staring at the ceiling, begging my muscles to move and my lungs to function.
Memories flashed—laughing with friends in spring sunlight, chasing my little brother through puddles after rain, reading quietly in the library while the scent of old books wrapped around me.
Small, simple pleasures that now felt impossibly large.
How many moments had I wasted worrying about meaningless things?
I should have lived better. Spoken more. Tried harder…
A tremor of regret and grief ran through me. I had hidden behind smiles, buried my fear, pretended everything was fine—while ignoring the truth falling apart inside me.
Now there was no hiding.
Only the cold, merciless fact that death was close.
And I had no power to stop it.
1.1 — A Flicker of Hope
Even in my weakest moments, a few sparks refused to go out.
My family's love was one of them.
My mother whispering "It'll be alright" in the hallway.
My father sitting by my bedside, his eyes hardened by determination he couldn't voice aloud.
He used to read stories to me at night—heroes, distant kingdoms, epic journeys.
It almost felt laughable now.
There would be no hero to save me.
I thought of my little brother—his laughter, his teasing, his insistence that I join every ridiculous game he invented.
I had missed so much. I once envied his youth and freedom.
Now those memories ached with a bittersweet sting.
Why had I wasted so much time being afraid?
Even while my body deteriorated, something inside me still clung to life.
Small victories—breathing without wheezing, taking a step without collapsing, forcing a smile—became monumental.
Hope could exist, even when everything else was gone.
But the longing for a second chance burned through me like a disease of its own—relentless and consuming.
1.2 — The Voice and the Light
Warmth washed over me—faint at first, like sunlight slipping through a cracked window.
It grew stronger, spreading from my chest to my limbs, filling the empty places where fear once lived.
Then a quiet, absolute voice echoed in my mind:
"Shirakawa Miyuki… your story is not over."
I tried to speak, but my throat was dry, my lips cracked, my lungs barely responsive.
"Do you want another chance?"
A hesitant tremor ran through me.
Another chance?
Could I even hope for something like that?
My body was failing, and my heart was smothered by months of suffering.
Yet somewhere deep inside, a faint flame sparked to life—
a desire to keep living, to fix my mistakes, to reach for the life I never grasped.
Memories swept through me—
my brother's bright smile, my mother's gentle hands, my father's unwavering resolve, my small victories at school, and my lost friendships.
A reminder of the life I once had…
and the life I could still have.
Yes.
I wanted it.
I didn't want to leave with nothing but regrets.
The warmth sharpened into a brilliant light, swallowing my awareness.
Pain faded.
Fear dissolved.
I floated, weightless, suspended between life and something impossibly new.
1.3 — A New World
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in the hospital.
The world was vast, soft, and inexplicable.
Fabric brushed against my skin.
A heartbeat pulsed near my ear.
A faint, unfamiliar scent—flowers and clean water—filled my senses.
A woman leaned over me, tears shimmering in her eyes.
"Her hair… Haruto, look at her hair…"
A man dressed in traditional clothing, a sword at his waist, stepped forward. He crouched beside me, eyes widening as he looked at the tiny infant with snow-white hair.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Our little Miyuki."
I tried to scream, but only a wet, fragile sound escaped.
The woman's eyes sparkled with relief.
"She's crying! Haruto, she's crying!"
But I wasn't afraid.
I wasn't crying out of pain.
I was overwhelmed—by warmth, by touch, by the indescribable feeling of being wanted, held, loved from the very first moment.
1.4 — A Spark of Hope
My tiny hands instinctively clung to my mother's sleeve.
Warmth, scent, heartbeat, softness—everything was new, intense, and strangely comforting.
This was life.
My second life.
Memories of my first life flickered—
the failing body, the hospital, the void, the regret…
Now, in contrast, hope stirred within me—
fragile, bright, persistent.
I was alive.
I was here.
And this time, I would make it count.
My mother kissed my forehead as the chapter of my new existence quietly began.