Maple had died once already.

She remembered the sound first.

Not pain. Not fear.

Just something heavy hitting the floor.

Then darkness.

So when she opened her eyes again, she expected nothing.

Instead, she saw a ceiling painted with gold vines.

It took her several seconds to realize she was breathing.

Breathing meant alive.

Alive meant impossible.

She did not move at first. She was afraid that if she blinked too hard, the ceiling would disappear and she would fall back into nothing.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Heavy velvet curtains framed tall windows. Pale morning light slipped through, soft and cold. The bed beneath her was too wide. The sheets were silk.

This was not her apartment.

Her heart began to pound.

She sat up too quickly, and a strange lightness washed over her. Her body felt unfamiliar. Softer. Smaller.

Her hands trembled as she lifted them.

They were not her hands.

No faint burn marks from cooking. No chipped nails from years of typing.

Smooth. Pale. Elegant.

Her breathing turned uneven.

“No…”

Memories flooded in—not hers, but someone else’s.

A grand estate. A husband away at war. Servants moving silently through marble halls. A child.

Her blood ran cold.

She knew this life.

She knew this place.

She had read this novel. Many times.

And she was not the heroine.

Not the villain.

She was a side character.

The male lead’s mother.

The woman who died in chapter twenty-seven.

Her stomach twisted violently.

“No. No. No…”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Madam?”

A maid’s voice.

Maple froze.

This was real.

She swallowed. “Y-Yes.”

The door opened and a young maid bowed politely.

“Young Master is awake. He is asking for you.”

Young Master.

Her son.

Lucien Valehart.

Her heart stopped.

“I’ll be there,” she said automatically.

When the door closed, silence swallowed the room.

She stood on trembling legs and walked to the mirror.

Long dark hair fell down her back. Clear, soft features.

Beautiful, according to the novel.

But Maple didn’t see beauty.

She saw life.

A life she hadn’t had before.

In her old life, she had been nothing more than a worker of routines. Wake. Work. Sleep. Repeat. Her apartment smelled faintly of coffee and exhaustion. The days blurred together. She had barely smiled in years.

And now—now she was someone else. Someone who could hold a child in her arms. Someone who could live, really live, even if only for a short while.

Her mind answered the question she was too afraid to ask.

Lucien was five.

In the novel, she died when he was ten.

Five years.

She had five years before fate reached for her throat.

“I can’t die again,” she whispered.

The first time she saw him, she almost broke.

A small boy burst into the room.

“Mother!”

He threw his arms around her waist.

Warm. Real. Alive.

Her chest tightened.

“You didn’t come right away,” he whispered, burying his face against her dress.

Maple froze for a heartbeat, then relaxed her hands and let herself hold him.

His small fingers were soft and tentative. She felt an unfamiliar surge in her chest—a protectiveness so strong it nearly startled her.

“You… you’re real,” she murmured under her breath.

He pulled back slightly, blinking at her with wide, trusting eyes.

Completely defenseless.

She had read the novel a dozen times. She remembered the scene where he would later watch her die. Where he would cry, confused and scared, as the story hardened him into the feared male lead.

But he was just a child now. Just a little boy who loved his mother.

And he was hers to hold.

“I had a bad dream,” he confessed softly.

“What kind of dream?” she asked, kneeling down so she could meet his eyes.

“You disappeared,” he whispered.

Her arms wrapped around him instinctively.

“I’m here,” she said too quickly.

He relaxed slightly, pressing closer.

Maple’s chest ached, and yet it felt alive for the first time in years. She could almost hear the laughter she had forgotten from her old life, buried under endless monotony.

The first few days passed in a blur of wonder and fear.

She found herself lingering over small moments: helping him tie his shoes, watching him fumble with brushes while practicing calligraphy, laughing softly when he mispronounced words.

Everything was small. Everything was beautiful.

She even caught herself mentally squealing over how cute he was—how his hair fell over his eyes when he concentrated, how his tiny fists clenched when he was determined. She had never had anyone to watch, to care for. Never anyone who depended on her entirely.

And now, this little boy was hers.

But the weight of the story pressed on her shoulders.

Every laugh felt like a countdown. Every hug carried the knowledge of a final goodbye.

At night, she lay awake in her silken sheets, staring at the ceiling, imagining the future she had read so many times.

The door breaking open. The flash of steel. Lucien screaming. Blood on marble.

She pressed her hands to her mouth.

If she stayed, she would die—and he would witness.

If she left, she would break his heart before he even understood why.

Better, she reasoned, that he hate her than that he grows up as a villain.

By the fifth day, she could no longer ignore it.

Every time Lucien laughed, she felt both warmth and pain.

Every time he clutched her sleeve, she wanted to freeze him in that moment forever.

She would protect him, she decided, no matter what it cost.

And if that meant leaving before the story caught up… then so be it.

She pressed a trembling hand to her chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the silent room.

Even if it meant becoming the villain in her son’s story.

Even if it meant leaving the life she had just begun to cherish.

The wind brushed against the window.

The estate looked calm, safe, innocent.

A lie.

Fate was already moving.

And far away—on a battlefield covered in dust and steel—her husband paused mid-step, sensing something precious slipping through his fingers.

He did not understand yet.

But when he returned—

The woman he had slowly begun to respect and care for would be gone.

And the story would begin to break.