A sudden shout jolted me awake.
I blinked, confused, as the voice of a slightly chubby man in his thirties boomed right in front of me. He glared at me, telling me to open my book and stop falling asleep in his class.
My book?
Why was he telling me to open a book?
And more importantly—
who was this man?
Only when I lifted my head and looked around did the truth hit me.
I was sitting inside a classroom. Rows of students… desks… a blackboard…
My body moved on instinct before my mind even caught up. I reached into the bag beside me and pulled out the same math book everyone else had on their desks.
My thoughts twisted in confusion.
Why was I in a classroom?
Who were these people?
Just a short while ago, I had been a 45-year-old construction worker—tired, unhappy, living a life that wore me down day by day. On my way home, I'd seen two little kids running across the street. When a speeding car appeared out of nowhere, I didn't think. I simply ran, pushing the child out of harm's way…
And then the car hit me.
I hadn't expected to survive.
Yet here I was.
The moment class ended, I snatched my bag and rushed outside. One of the students called after me, asking where I was going. I muttered something about feeling sick and needing to leave.
Once I reached a quiet, empty hallway, I raised my hand and slammed it into the wall—hard.
Pain shot through my arm.
So I tried again.
And again.
Every time, the pain was real.
Reincarnation… the idea was absurd. Impossible. Ridiculous.
But no matter how much I denied it—
this was real.
I had been reincarnated.
Whether I deserved it or not…
Whether I understood it or not…
It felt like life had given me one last chance—
a chance to live better than before.
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