Wilona wiped her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Bright green eyes, a trait inherited from her father, met hers. A silence passed as she examined her face, scanning for any flaws, any imperfections that might have escaped her notice. But there were none. Satisfied, she pushed herself off the sink. The last traces of puberty had finally vanished—an amazing piece of news she couldn't wait to share with her friends.

  Leaving the bathroom, she walked toward her room, a towel still wrapped around her head.

  It could be said that her room was normal for any teenage girl. Soft pinks, warm peaches, and light pastels coated the space, creating an atmosphere of comfort. The window was always open, allowing fresh air to sweep through. Her closet, painted in the rich shades of autumn, stood against the far wall, and her wooden bed was covered in floral-patterned sheets. Decorations followed the same aesthetic—at least, the ones that hadn’t been removed when she or her friends stopped caring about the person or character they once admired.

  She made her way to the desk beside her bed and turned off the lamp. She had left it on earlier—good thing her mother hadn’t noticed, or she would have never heard the end of it. God knows how much of a fuss the woman would make over something as small as wasted electricity.

  Humming a tune, Wilona opened a cabinet and pulled out two hair ties. She unwound the towel from her head and grabbed a blow dryer before closing the cabinet again. Settling into her chair, she pulled the mirror closer and powered on the dryer. One hand directed the hot air through her hair, while the other reached for makeup, brushes, and cotton pads.

  She held the hair ties between her teeth as she worked, methodically drying her hair. The warm air surrounded her in a soothing cocoon, and for the next few minutes, she focused solely on the task at hand. Once her hair was dry enough to bounce, she gathered the strands together, combed them straight, and secured them in place with the hair ties.

  Makeup, uniform, knee socks, shoes—one by one, each piece came together.

  Standing before her mirror, she gave herself one final check. Smoothing the hem of her skirt, she smiled. Perfect.

  She had always believed that preparation both solved and prevented problems. That little philosophy had served her well so far, and she saw no reason to abandon it now. A well-practiced habit ensured her mornings were never rushed—like making her lunch the night before, which gave her the luxury of taking her time with her appearance.

  Wilona stopped scrolling through her phone and pulled a salad burrito from the microwave. A healthy meal for both breakfast and lunch—she could never go wrong with such a choice.

  Grabbing her bag from the coat rack by the door, she gave everything one last mental checklist. Homework? Done. Notes? Neatly arranged. Test papers? Carefully stacked in a folder at the back of her bag.

  The last thing she needed to do now was lock the door, slip the key into her pocket, and leave.

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  The bus stop was unusually quiet that morning. Almost no one was around. Across the street, two pairs of kids played soccer, their laughter filling the air. Wilona watched them, her phone resting untouched on her lap. None of them seemed particularly skilled, but then again, she’d never been the sporty type. Maybe they were good? …Eh.

  A sudden crash.

  Her head snapped toward the sound—a stupid move, really. She should have run.

  Why? Because a van was barreling straight toward her, moving at a speed that would put Olympic sprinters to shame.

  She barely managed to rise from her seat before the out-of-control vehicle struck her.

  ---

  Darkness.

  For a moment, Wilona thought she was in a hospital, miraculously alive yet trapped in a state where it was probably better if they just pulled the plug. She didn’t want to live as a vegetable. If her parents had any mercy, they’d let fate take its course.

  "You are not going to live as a vegetable, don't worry."

  A voice. From nowhere.

  Was it reading her thoughts?

  At first, she assumed it was a doctor speaking to her, maybe responding to her mumblings. But then the laugh came—an actual, physical sound echoing through the void. That was when she knew. This wasn’t a hospital.

  "You are correct!" The voice was cheerful, though not in the same peppy way her friends sounded. More like… someone genuinely enjoying themselves. "Well, introductions are unnecessary, seeing as I’m only here to offer you a choice and then deliver you to your new home. So let me start everything with a simple question: do you want to pass into an afterlife, or do you wish to live again?"

  So she was dead?

  "Yes. Yes, you are. So what is your answer, little one?"

  Well, if she had a choice, then obviously, she’d live again. The afterlife sounded like it’d be boring. And how did it even work? Wilona didn’t want to find out. She was more curious about what this "new life" entailed. And why was she being given one? If she could tilt her head, she would have.

  "Why a new life? It’s simple, really—we think you’re the perfect candidate for reincarnation. There are few who share your particular set of traits, so the choice is given. Move on and rest until reincarnation… or live again, in a different world."

  Hmm... But wasn’t the new world dangerous?

  "Nope. Well, it is," the voice chuckled, the sound vibrating everywhere and nowhere at the same time. "But don’t worry. We’ll ensure your new life will be much easier to adjust to. Consider it compensation for what we will ask of you. And if you do well, you may even become powerful enough to live for a few centuries!"

  A longer lifespan? Now that was an interesting prospect.

  Wait—what about her family?

  "You cannot go back to your original world, sadly. They are grieving, and only fate will decide how they move forward."

  Wilona wanted to frown. Seriously? That was kind of stupid.

  "It’s not like you can help them, dear. Don’t you know that you are already dead? What can you realistically do?"

  Ah. There it was. That peppiness. Now the voice reminded her of her friends, which was… unnerving.

  She processed what had happened. She didn’t cry—actually, it felt like she couldn’t cry. But what was the difference? Either way, the reality remained the same: she was dead. And the dead had no agency.

  Alright then.

  Wilona accepted the offer.

  "Great!" The voice rang out, bright and eager. "You will be transferred shortly. Good luck!"

  ---

  Wilona blinked.

  She gasped and reached for her chest, fingers grasping fabric—but instead of the smoothness of her uniform, she felt… cotton? Looking down, she took in the simple cotton shirt. Not exactly high quality, but at least it was clean. For now. Who knew how long that would last?

  She wasn’t even sure if that dream—or whatever it was—had been real. Well, obviously, it was.

  "Get your head together," she muttered, slapping her cheeks. "You died… And…"

  She shut her eyes. It was kind of hard to accept, now that she was here. Swallowing her emotions, she forced herself to say it out loud.

  "...And got given a second chance."

  And what a second chance this was.

  She was in a swamp. Dry land, thankfully. She still had a backpack—well, more like a satchel. It was made of leather, bigger than her usual knapsack, and filled with useful things.

  She dug inside and pulled out a weapon. Her mind wanted to call it a knife, but "knife" meant something from a kitchen, right? Flat back, slanted body. That kind of knife.

  This was more of a dagger.

  Besides that, she had extra clothes—similar to what she was wearing now—some food, water, and a small leather bag containing soap, a bone-like toothbrush, and charcoal dust. Oh, and a towel.

  Well. That was nice, at least.