I remembered my past—or rather, my previous life—when I was nine years old. It was the morning of the day I was to meet my fiancé.
Awakened by the voice of the maid urging me to get up, I glanced at the clock: 6:30 a.m. At that moment, the words “radio calisthenics” suddenly flashed through my mind.
(“Radio calisthenics?”)
At the same time, a scene of children around my age flickered in my mind. An early summer morning, a park with sand laid out. First-graders eyeing the swings, sixth-graders yawning lazily.
It was the town where I once lived. A regional city where I spent my life until I graduated high school.
Underneath the nostalgic sky, music flowed from a player placed on a bench… as my life flashed before my eyes like a revolving lantern.
(…Ah, I’ve been reincarnated.)
A maid, dressed in a black dress with a white apron and cap, opened the curtains, letting in the bright morning light.
The room was furnished with impressive woodwork.
The walls were decorated with gold patterns, and a finely woven carpet covered the floor. For a child’s room, it was far too luxurious, but it was indeed the room I was familiar with.
The contrast between this and the radio calisthenics playing in my mind left me frozen, unable to move from the bed.
“Lady Mia? You have an appointment this morning, so…”
The one explaining why I was up early was Alma, the maid of this household.
“…Good morning, Alma.”
And I, I am Mia. Mia de Bèlle, the daughter of the Baron de Bèlle family.
“What is the matter, my lady? Are you feeling unwell?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Snapping out of it, I sat up, and Alma, seemingly relieved, went into the dressing room to fetch my clothes.
Watching her leave, I let out a sigh of relief.
(That explains a lot.)
Until now, I always felt like I wasn’t quite grounded.
Vehicles that weren’t carriages, moving staircases, machines that could replay sounds and images. Foods I couldn’t find, fairy tales I had never heard of, the history of non-existent countries.
I’d talk about these things as if I had seen them, sing songs I hadn’t been taught, and write poetry about impossible landscapes. Naturally, people thought I was odd.
(I’ve been told that I’m difficult to relate to and that I don’t act like a child.)
But if those memories lingered from my past life, then it all makes sense.
This world, which resembles early modern Europe, is vastly different from the Japan of the 21st century where I lived in my previous life. Toward the end of that life, I was a married woman with children, even older than my current mother.
The vague sense of unease I’d always felt must have been due to the dissonance between my past and present lives.
Now that I know the reason, I feel much lighter.
I won’t need to spend hours in the library searching for books that don’t exist anymore. Nor will I trouble the kitchen by asking for dishes that can’t be made with the available ingredients.
(I must’ve worried my parents too.)
Though my parents and brother accepted me as the oddball that I was, the rest of the world didn’t.
My grandmother, who passed away last year, found me unsettling and forbade me from leaving the house. Thanks to that, no strange rumors spread, but I didn’t have any friends either.
Even so, I never felt lonely or discontent, which, looking back, was odd in itself.
Now that I remember my past as a parent, I understand how much worry my strange behavior must have caused my mother.
In this world, people believe that when you die, you go to the land of the gods. There’s no concept of past lives or reincarnation, and if I were to speak of such things, I’d be labeled not just “a bit odd,” but something far worse.
So I can’t talk about my previous life, but I’ll change my behavior so that they’ll no longer worry.
(Now that I’ve remembered, I feel sorry for my grandmother…)
Until her last days, she constantly warned me not to go outside until I was either of age or had found a reliable fiancé.
If I had remembered earlier, I could’ve handled things better and reassured her.
Regret washed over me, and a single thought arose in my mind:
I don’t want to cause anyone sorrow because of me anymore.
(And since I’ve been reincarnated, maybe I can do something meaningful this time.)
In my previous life, I faced many twists, turns, and setbacks.
Though, in the end, I realized that even an ordinary life can be a form of happiness, I couldn’t feel that way while living through it.
If I’m going to live again, I want to truly experience happiness while I’m alive.
To do that, not only must I be happy, but those around me must be happy as well.
Wishing for others’ happiness isn’t hypocrisy; it’s because I’m a coward.
For instance, if I were the only one served a luxurious meal, I wouldn’t feel a sense of superiority but rather discomfort. I don’t want to feel guilty when enjoying a delicious meal.
So—yes, my goal is a happy ending.
If everyone is smiling, I can smile without hesitation and become happy as part of the group.
“My lady, here you are.”
“Thanks.”
While I was thinking about such things, Alma returned and dressed me in an off-white gown made from luxurious fabric. It was my first time in a while wearing outdoor attire.
Though I’ve been labeled as odd, I don’t throw tantrums or look down on those below me, so my relationship with the servants is not bad.
As she carefully helped me get ready, the mirror reflected a young lady with long, straight golden hair and light topaz-colored eyes.
My features themselves aren’t bad.
But my unnaturally thin cheeks and disproportionately large eyes stand out.
“…Wearing white makes me look like a ghost.”
“My lady?”
“Nothing. Could you tie that ribbon for me?”
I brushed off my muttered comment, asking her to tie an orange ribbon, matching my eyes, into my hair. Hopefully, it would brighten my complexion a bit.
Since I rarely go outside, not even into the garden, my skin is pale and my body frail. As I touched my bony arm peeking out from the ruffled sleeve, I resolved to exercise a little more.
After all, if I’m aiming for a happy ending, I’ll need some basic stamina.
(Maybe I should start doing radio calisthenics?)
With that thought, I smiled—probably not in a childlike manner—before gracefully swishing the hem of my long skirt and leaving the room.
☆ ☆ ☆
Today’s outing was a meeting with the son of a viscount. In other words, a matchmaking meeting.
Even as a nine-year-old baron’s daughter, marriage proposals come my way. In aristocratic society, family status and convenience often take precedence over individual qualities.
There had been several near-engagements in the past, but they fell through due to mismatched conditions or shifting political winds.
This time, however, the proposal came through my great-uncle’s connection, and the engagement was practically settled.
I appreciate my great-uncle’s fondness for me, an eccentric, but—
“I won’t marry someone like you!”
In the beautiful garden of the viscount’s estate, the viscount’s son glared at me with a sharp gaze.
(Oh dear.)
Just moments ago, both families were enjoying pleasant conversation in the reception room. However, when the discussion reached a more delicate stage, the adults said, “Why don’t the children go play outside?” and had a few servants escort us out. Despite the fact that we’re the ones involved.
As soon as we left the room, the boy’s defiant attitude surfaced, and even though we made it to the garden, he turned to glare at me as if he wanted to kill me. His first words were exactly as I feared.
Noticing the maid of the viscount’s family nervously sweating at the boy’s outburst, he seemed puzzled by my lack of tears or anger and continued to pile on his words.
“Are you even listening? I said I won’t marry someone like you. Who would want to marry such an ugly ghost—”
“I hear you just fine. I feel the same way.”
“Huh?”
“I looked in the mirror and thought I looked like a ghost too. I also don’t want to get married. We’re on the same page, aren’t we?”
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