Margotte sat in her nursery window seat, wooden horse clutched in one hand, watching rain streak down the glass. She was nineteen months old now, and lately, her thoughts had been... complicated.
The house was quiet. Her nursemaid had stepped out, trusting that Margotte would stay put. She always did now, after the stairs incident. Cautious. Careful.
Different.
She turned the wooden horse over in her small hands, tracing the smooth curves Evander had once held. It was silly, really, how much she liked this toy. Silly how much she looked forward to his visits. Silly how his quiet presence made her feel settled in a way nothing else did.
Except it wasn't silly to her. Not anymore.
And that was the problem.
I'm an adult, she thought, not for the first time. I'm a twenty-six-year-old woman who died of an aneurysm. I should not be excited about playdates.
But she was. Genuinely, truly excited.
When had that happened?
She remembered her first life with perfect clarity. The pressure, the constant drive, the way every achievement felt hollow because there was always another mountain to climb. She remembered being twenty-six and feeling ancient, exhausted, stretched so thin she was transparent.
She remembered dying at her desk, surrounded by papers that suddenly meant nothing at all.
Now she was nineteen months old. Her biggest concerns were whether she'd get the blue cup or the red cup at breakfast, if Adrian would steal her toys during their next visit, if Evander's next letter would come soon.
I think like a toddler now, she realized, and the thought didn't horrify her the way it should have.
Because thinking like a toddler meant being excited about simple things. Meant curiosity without the crushing weight of expectations. Meant she could enjoy Evander's quiet company without analyzing what it meant for her academic standing or professional reputation.
There was no academic standing here. No professional reputation.
Just... life. Simple, small, immediate life.
"But I like him," Margotte whispered to the wooden horse. "I actually like him. Not as a twenty-six-year-old woman watching a four-year-old child. As... as me. As who I am now."
The absurdity of it struck her. She was trying to analyze her feelings about a four-year-old boy while being a year-and-a-half-old girl who was also somehow a dead doctoral student.
There was no framework for this. No research paper titled "Emotional Development in Reincarnated Academics: A Case Study." No precedent, no peer review, no logical structure to impose on the situation.
Just feelings. Messy, illogical, toddler feelings that somehow coexisted with adult memories.
I died because I couldn't accept anything less than perfect, she thought. I pushed and pushed until something broke.
She looked at her tiny hands, so different from the ink-stained fingers that had gripped pens for hours until they cramped. These hands played with blocks. Drew wobbly pictures. Held wooden horses.
These hands had never written a thesis.
Do I want to do it again? The question had been lurking in her mind for months now. Do I want to be the best, prove myself, climb to the top?
The automatic answer should have been yes. That's who she was. Who she'd always been.
But the memory of the stairs—of falling, nearly losing this second chance before it had properly begun—whispered something different.
What if I just... lived this time?
The thought was radical. Terrifying. Almost offensive to everything she'd been.
But also... tempting.
"I could be a knight," she said aloud, testing the words. It's what she'd been saying when adults asked about her future. Knights seemed important here. Respected. It was a goal, a direction.
But was it her goal? Or just another mountain to climb because mountains were there?
The door opened. Lady Rosalind entered with a warm smile, settling beside Margotte on the window seat.
"Deep thoughts for such a little one?" her mother asked gently.
Margotte leaned into the warmth. This was another strange thing. She'd never been physically affectionate in her previous life. Her parents had loved her, certainly, but distantly. Proudly. There had been no casual cuddles, no sitting together in companionable silence.
Now she craved it. The warmth, the safety, the simple presence of someone who loved her without requiring achievement first.
"Rain," Margotte said, because explaining existential crises was beyond her vocabulary.
"Yes, lots of rain today. Too wet to play outside." Rosalind brushed a curl from Margotte's face. "I received a letter from Lady Helena. She says Evander has been asking about you."
Margotte's heart did a small, happy flip.
See? she told her adult self. That's a toddler reaction. I'm thinking like a toddler. It's fine.
"Evander nice," she said.
"He is nice. Very thoughtful for his age." Rosalind paused. "You know, Adrian seems to think there's some kind of romance brewing."
Margotte's face burned. "Adrian is dumb."
"Adrian is many things, but not dumb." Her mother laughed. "Though I agree he's being silly. You're all far too young for such things. But friendships? Those are precious at any age."
"Evander is friend. Good friend."
"The best kind of friend is one who makes you feel peaceful," Rosalind said softly. "Not less than yourself, but... not more, either. Just exactly who you are."
Margotte processed this. It was true. With Evander, she wasn't competing. Wasn't proving anything. Could just... be.
With Adrian, she was always pushing, always sharp, always more. It was exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure.
Both were important, she realized. Both were different kinds of friendship.
"Mama?" Margotte asked carefully. "What should I be? When big?"
"Oh, sweetheart. You have so much time to decide. Why worry about it now?"
"Just... thinking."
Rosalind hugged her close. "You can be anything you want. A knight, a scholar, a healer, a merchant, an artist. Or you could marry well and manage an estate. Or travel the world. Or raise children. Or all of those things, or none of them."
"That's... a lot of options."
"Life usually is." Her mother kissed the top of her head. "You don't have to decide today. Or tomorrow. Or even next year. Just grow, learn, discover what makes you happy."
What makes you happy.
The phrase echoed in Margotte's mind long after her mother left.
In her previous life, she'd never asked that question. She'd asked: What will make me successful? What will prove I'm the best? What will finally be enough?
The answer had always been: more. Always more.
And it had killed her.
"I want to matter," Margotte whispered to the empty room. "I want to do something meaningful. But I don't want to die this time."
The wooden horse had no answers. But holding it made her feel less alone in her confusion.
She thought about Evander—how he observed the world quietly, how he seemed content with himself, how he didn't need to be the loudest or the best to have value. She thought about Lysander too—all that chaotic energy, that joy in simply existing loudly and vibrantly.
She thought about Adrian—the competition, yes, but also the way he'd held on when she fell. The way they pushed each other not out of hatred but out of some fundamental need to match each other, step for step.
Different ways of being. All of them valid.
Maybe I don't have to be just one thing, she thought. Maybe I can be competitive with Adrian and peaceful with Evander and still be me.
Maybe she could be a knight, but not to prove she was the best. Just because it seemed interesting, important, useful. Maybe she could study, but for the joy of learning, not the need to be superior.
Maybe she could let herself be nineteen months old while also being twenty-six. Could integrate both parts instead of letting one consume the other.
That's probably not possible, her analytical mind argued. That's not how psychology works.
But then, reincarnation wasn't how anything worked, and here she was.
Margotte looked out at the rain, feeling the weight of the wooden horse in her hand, the warmth of the window seat beneath her, the lingering sense of her mother's hug.
Small things. Simple things.
Things that mattered because they made her happy, not because they proved anything.
I can do this differently, she decided. I can have goals without them consuming me. I can compete without it killing me. I can like a boy even if my brain says it's absurd, because my heart is the heart of a toddler now, too.
The absurdity of trying to rationalize reincarnation made her laugh—a high, baby giggle that would have embarrassed her previous self.
Her current self didn't care.
"Okay," she said to the universe, to herself, to whatever cosmic force had given her this second chance. "I'll try. I'll try to live this time. Really live. Not just achieve."
The rain continued falling. The wooden horse remained wooden. Nothing magical happened.
But Margotte felt lighter somehow. Decided.
She had time. Years and years of time. Time to figure out who Margotte Ashford was, separate from who Margotte Chen had been.
Time to be a toddler who liked her friend Evander without it being weird.
Time to compete with Adrian without it being fatal.
Time to find something meaningful to do with this second life. Something that mattered without consuming her.
Knights protect people, she thought. That's meaningful. That's useful. That's...
That's enough.
Not the best knight. Not the most decorated or celebrated or analyzed knight.
Just... a knight. A good one. One who helped people. And maybe, along the way, she'd figure out how to be happy.
The door burst open. Adrian rushed in, soaking wet, grinning wildly.
"Margotte! Come! Found frog in garden!"
"You're all wet!"
"Don't care! Frog! Big one! Come see!"
Before she could protest, he grabbed her hand and pulled. And despite the rain, the impropriety, the certainty that they'd both be scolded, Margotte found herself laughing as she followed.
Because this was living.
And for the first time since her reincarnation, Margotte felt truly grateful for it.
Even if she was about to get completely soaked looking at a frog with the most annoying boy in two lifetimes.