Chapter 1: The Day Everything Broke

In my previous life, our baby sister used to whine and cry that Coach was way too strict—making her practice five thousand swings every day. Five thousand swings, can you believe it?

I remember the way Savannah's voice would tremble, her cheeks still flushed from practice under the harsh gym lights, her hands clutching the hem of her Maple Heights hoodie. She had this way of making every little thing sound like the end of the world. Back then, I thought it was just nerves.

I tried to comfort her: "Coach is doing this for your own good. I had to practice just as much, you know? That's how I got here."

I reached over, gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder. Tried to sound like the wise older sister. "Trust me, Savannah. I know it's tough, but you'll thank him one day."

Who could've guessed she'd run out the front gate in tears... and everything would fall apart?

I still remember the slam of the heavy school doors, the way her sobs echoed down the hallway. There was a kind of cold panic in my chest I couldn't quite shake, even as I told myself she'd be back in a few minutes. She wasn't.

When our oldest brother returned from his internship, he shattered my future. Just like that.

Graham came home that summer with a new air about him—more serious, more distant. He'd been away at a fencing camp in Connecticut. When he walked in that night, I could tell—something had changed.

"Little sis is already doing great. You're just a regular player—why're you showing off in front of her?"

His words stung worse than any bruise from practice. He said it at the dinner table, in front of everyone, his voice low but carrying. Mom didn't even look up from her phone. I waited for her to react, but she just kept scrolling. Dad just cleared his throat and kept eating.

I was benched, kicked off the team, and my dreams? Dead. Just like that.

It was like someone had pulled the floor out from under me. My gear sat untouched in the corner of my room for weeks, the smell of sweat and resin fading into something stale and bitter. I couldn't even look at it.

Next thing I knew, I was back. Right at the moment when Savannah came to me crying.

The room was the same—the faded posters, the stack of old tournament medals on my dresser, the faint hum of the air conditioner. For a split second, I thought I'd dreamed the whole thing. Then I heard her again.

Bang bang bang! My heart skipped.

Outside my door, she kept crying and knocking.

"Big sis, big sis, are you there? Please open up!"

Her voice was thin, almost desperate, muffled by the old wooden door. I could hear her little fists thumping, the rhythm frantic. My chest tightened. I couldn't move.

My breathing went ragged. I nearly lost control. I reached over and turned up my white noise machine, cutting off all sound from outside.

The whirring static filled the room, drowning out her cries. I pressed my palm to my chest, trying to steady my heartbeat. It was no use. My thoughts raced, looping back over every word I'd ever said to her.

Vanilla candles flickered on my nightstand. The scent should've calmed me. It didn't.

The candles flickered on my nightstand, casting soft shadows on the wall. I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint. Wishing I could disappear into them.

I'm the second oldest on the Maple Heights Sword & Fencing Team. Our oldest brother, Graham Sinclair? He ignores everything but his training. It's all he cares about.

Graham was the kind of guy who ate protein bars for breakfast and watched slow-motion fencing videos on his phone during family game night. He barely spoke to anyone unless it was about footwork or blade angles. Yeah, he was obsessed.

Before Coach went on sabbatical, he pulled me aside. Told me to look after the team—especially Savannah Lin.

Coach Henderson was old-school, the kind of man who wore his whistle like a badge of honor. Coach pulled me aside after practice, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "Mariah, keep an eye on the younger ones. Savannah's got potential, but she's green. They all look up to you."

So, in my previous life, when she banged on my door like that, anyone else would've reported her. But I thought she was just new and didn't blame her.

Most of the upperclassmen would have told her off or sent her straight to Coach. But I figured she was just scared and trying to find her footing. I let it slide. Thought I was doing her a favor.

She cried, complained about Coach being too strict—five thousand swings a day, she said. I tried to comfort her.

I sat her down, handed her a water bottle. "It's not just you, Savannah. Trust me, we've all been there."