1 They killed me for stealing bread for my brother, Gerry. Then we both were reborn. Last life, we were orphans with only each other. I took any cash job, scavenged dumpsters, all to get him one hot meal. I thought we meant everything to each other. Until I lay dying and a luxury car pulled up. Our “parents” stepped out, glancing at my broken body with disdain. “In extreme conditions,” my mother said coldly, “you see the difference between noble and vile. Gerry is stronger that way.” Gerry was pure and noble. I was vile, doing anything to survive. I opened my eyes back in that alley, the baker pinning me to the wall, a stale half-loaf in my hand. Gerry stood at the alley’s end, flanked by the same rich parents. Reborn too. His eyes held cold contempt. “Willow,” he spat, “you’re filthy.” “Mom says your kind belongs in the mud. Stay out of my life—don’t contaminate it.” But Gerry, I wasn’t born a thief. … A sharp kick to my shin sent a spike of agony up my leg. The baker loomed over me, his mouth open to unleash a torrent of abuse. Ignoring the throbbing pain, I shouted, my voice clear and steady. "I'm not a thief! I'll pay for it!" The baker and Gerry both froze, their expressions a mixture of shock and confusion. Slowly, I reached into my tattered pocket and pulled out a few coins. I spread them on my palm, carefully counting them under their stunned gaze. A penny, a dime, another nickel… Gerry used to collect cans and bottles for these coins. He gave them to me, saying we’d save up to buy me a pair of shoes that actually fit. I’d treasured them, refusing to spend a single one. I looked up, letting the tears I couldn't stop fall freely down my cheeks, and held my hand out to the baker. "I'm sorry I took your bread," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "This is all the money I have. Please, take it as payment." The alley fell silent. The baker stared at the small pile of change in my hand, speechless. He'd probably never seen a thief try to apologize, let alone pay. A delicate, derisive snort came from the end of the alley. It was Miranda, my so-called mother. "What a pathetic little show. You can't change what's in your bones." Gerry said nothing, but the tight line of his jaw told me everything. He must have wanted me to scream, to beg, to make a scene like I did last time—a perfect, ugly backdrop to his own quiet dignity. But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. I pressed the coins into the baker's hand and turned my back on him. In our last life, to make sure my fifteen-year-old brother never went hungry, I’d worked grueling, off-the-books jobs. I'd hauled heavy crates before sunrise, the weight crushing my small frame until I could barely breathe. I could endure the physical pain, but the humiliation, the constant looks of disgust from others because I had no money—that was a wound that never healed. Once, when a crate of rice went missing from a warehouse, the foreman’s wife instantly accused me. She screamed at me in front of everyone. I swallowed my pride and my tears, because I knew I had to keep that job to feed Gerry. This time, I was done swallowing anything. I looked at Gerry one last time. My gaze traveled past his expensive clothes, his perfectly handsome face, and settled on the cold, selfish void where his soul should have been. As I died for him in our past life, my last thought was a prayer that we wouldn't be brother and sister in the next. It was just too hard. Now I understood. The hardship was mine alone. For him, I felt nothing. No love, no reliance, no lingering affection. Only a vast, empty space where it used to be. I turned away and limped toward a different alley, one that was deeper and darker. It led to the place we once called home, and to the separate worlds we now inhabited. Behind me, Gerry's voice rang out, laced with confusion and anger. "Willow! Stop right there!" "Don't think this little act changes the stench that clings to you. You and I will never be the same." He paused, his tone shifting to one of magnanimous pity. "If you behave, I might even ask Mom to take you in, too." I didn't turn back. I heard Miranda's sharp voice cut through the air. "Gerry, darling, a little thief like that has no place in the Ashworth family. Leave her be. She’s just a stray dog. How could she ever compare to you?" A stray dog who kept him alive for fifteen years. I knew this dark, winding alley by heart. I’d walked it a thousand times. I remembered once, I’d managed to buy him two hot meat pies. It was so dark I tripped and fell, but I shielded the pies with my body. My arm was scraped raw, leaving a scar that’s still there today. Gerry had cried, calling me an idiot, and promised that one day he’d install lights all along my path home so I’d never fall again. But the lights were never meant for me. I arrived back at our familiar shelter under the bridge. The air was thick with the smell of the stagnant river and rotting garbage. This was the home Gerry and I had shared for fifteen years. In a corner sat a one-eyed teddy bear. I’d pulled it from a dumpster for his eighth birthday, washed it a dozen times, and carefully stitched its torn seams myself. I grabbed the bear, walked to the edge of the bridge, and without a moment's hesitation, hurled it into the murky water below. Goodbye, Gerry. Goodbye to the fool I used to be. The gash on my leg burned. I dragged myself to a scrapyard and sold everything we owned. With the meager earnings, I bought a bottle of cheap antiseptic and some bandages from a corner store, along with two of the hardest bread rolls they had. Back under the bridge, I bit down on my sleeve and poured filthy river water over my wound to clean it, then followed with the antiseptic. The pain was a blinding, white-hot flash. My body shook uncontrollably, sweat soaking my back, but I clenched my jaw and refused to cry. Once the wound had scabbed over, I started looking for work. For days, I was met with nothing but slammed doors, suspicious glares, and harsh dismissals. Then, passing a small diner, a familiar name on the TV inside caught my eye. The headline blared across the screen: "BILLIONAIRE CEO RICHARD ASHWORTH HOSTS LAVISH GALA TO WELCOME SON, GERRY ASHWORTH, HOME FROM CHARACTER-BUILDING EXCURSION." There he was, dressed in a tailored suit, looking every bit the refined, aristocratic heir. And here I was, still in rags. We were finally what the world always intended us to be: parallel lines, never to cross again. Just as I was about to collapse from hunger, I found a job at a greasy spoon diner in a rough part of the warehouse district. The owner, a tough-looking woman named Clara, gave me a long look, taking in my ragged clothes, my pale face, and the poorly-tended wound on my leg. "You know how to wash dishes?" she asked, her voice gruff. "Yes!" I nodded frantically. "Thirty bucks a day, plus one meal. You in?" "Yes! I'm in!" I finally had a job. I was a dishwasher. The diner was always busy, and the greasy plates piled up like mountains. Clara was one of those people who hid a kind heart behind a stern face. Seeing how hard I worked, she started packing up some leftovers for me at the end of my shift. "Here," she'd grumble, pushing a small bag into my hands. "You're skinny as a stray cat." "Thank you, Clara." It was the first kindness I'd received since my new life began. My relentless work ethic didn't go unnoticed. In less than two weeks, I was promoted from the back-kitchen dishwasher to a server's assistant, allowed to bring food out to the customers in the main dining area. The staff meals were simple, usually made from leftover ingredients that couldn't be sold. But even these scraps were a feast compared to what Gerry and I used to eat. I started experimenting, combining the unwanted vegetable ends and meat trimmings with the simplest of seasonings. The meals I created were surprisingly delicious. "Willow, you've got a gift! This is way better than what my wife makes!" one of the cooks exclaimed. "Seriously, kid, that flavor is unreal! You're wasting your talent back here!" Their praise was a balm, slowly rebuilding the confidence that had been stripped from me. One day, Clara took a phone call and her face went white as a sheet. Her son had gotten into a fight at school and badly injured another boy. She needed a lot of money, fast, to cover the medical bills and settlements. But business at the diner had been slow lately. I found her crying silently in a corner. I walked over. "Clara," I said softly. "Let me try." "Try what?" she asked, her eyes red and swollen. "Let me try cooking. A new menu item." "You?" She looked at me, her expression full of doubt. I didn't waste time with words. I walked straight into the kitchen. In my past life, to make something out of nothing, I learned to turn scavenged day-old rice, cheap soy sauce, and nearly expired eggs into a dish I called "Golden Fried Rice." There was no complex technique, just the muscle memory of making it hundreds of times because it was Gerry's favorite. It was our special occasion meal. Whenever he was sad, I’d find a way to get my hands on an egg and make him a bowl. I used to love hearing him say, "Willow's fried rice is the best in the world! I could eat it forever!" Thinking about it now felt like a bitter joke. I used my own money to buy fresh ingredients and the right kind of soy sauce. The moment the rice hit the hot wok, a rich, savory aroma of soy and egg filled the entire diner, even drifting out onto the street. "What is that amazing smell?" Everyone in the diner turned, drawn by the scent. I scooped a bowl and brought it to Clara. "Clara, try this." Hesitantly, she took a bite. Her eyes widened. The rice was perfectly cooked, each grain separate and coated in a golden sheen of egg and caramelized soy sauce. It was simple, yet so delicious it could make you cry. "Clara," I said, pressing my advantage. "Let's launch a five-dollar 'Community Bowl'." "We'll sell it to the construction crews and laborers around here. They need something cheap, filling, and delicious." Clara looked at me, a flicker of hope igniting in her eyes. "Okay," she said, her voice firming. "Let's give it a shot." The "Golden Fried Rice" was an instant sensation. Five dollars for a huge bowl, served with a free cup of soup. For the first time, a line formed outside the diner, stretching down the block. The fried rice brought people in, and they ended up buying other things too. Clara solved her financial problem, and I saved up my first bit of "seed money." The next time I saw Gerry, I was a whirlwind of motion, wielding a spatula in front of a roaring stove, sweat dripping down my face. My cheek was smudged with grease, my hair was plastered to my forehead, and I was a mess. His face darkened the moment he saw me. He stood there in his pristine school uniform, looking down his nose at me. "Willow, can't you find a decent job? Stop embarrassing me in public." I ignored him, flipping the rice in the wok. "I'll give you money," he said, his voice tight with irritation. "Just quit this job." I continued to ignore him. He was losing his patience, but my focus was on the line of customers behind him. "Next!" I called out, my voice ringing clear and loud. "You want an egg in that?" I had completely, utterly dismissed his presence. Gerry froze. The eyes of everyone in line were on him—a mix of curiosity, amusement, and confusion. A wave of humiliation, hotter than any stove flame, washed over him. "You don't know what's good for you," he hissed, turning to leave. I didn't care. Not knowing what was "good for me" was putting food in my stomach, and I didn't have to beg him for it. Before he left, he stopped and looked back, his eyes glinting with malice. "Willow," he said, his voice low and threatening, "I will make you regret not listening to me." A cold knot tightened in my stomach. I shook it off, my arm aching from the repetitive motion of the wok. Life didn't stop for his threats. My fried rice became famous in the district. With the money I saved, I rented a small storefront in the same neighborhood and hung up a sign: "Willow's Corner." I dedicated my little eatery to serving the local laborers—the cheapest, most delicious, and most filling meals they could find. It quickly became their go-to spot, a comfort after a long day's work. They called me "Boss Willow," their faces breaking into warm, genuine smiles whenever they saw me. But some people can't stand to see others succeed. A few days later, a group of men who had just eaten at my restaurant suddenly started clutching their stomachs, foaming at the mouth, and collapsing. They were rushed to the hospital. "Mass Food Poisoning!" Health department officials arrived within the hour, slapping a closure notice on my door without asking a single question. The media descended like vultures. "POISON KITCHEN! OWNER'S GREED PUTS LIVES AT RISK!" Vicious headlines spread across the city. The same workers who had smiled at me just yesterday now stood outside my shuttered shop, their faces contorted with rage. They were the victims' families. They surrounded me, screaming the foulest words imaginable. "You money-grubbing witch! Give me back my husband!" "Murderer! Give us our money back!" Rotten vegetables and eggs rained down on me. I stood there, unable to defend myself, my mind reeling. I couldn't believe it. I had hand-picked every vegetable, washed every grain of rice myself. It couldn't be my food. Just as the shoving crowd was about to knock me off my feet, a path suddenly cleared. Gerry had arrived. He was in his crisp school uniform, Miranda at his side. Behind them was a pack of reporters, cameras flashing. One reporter recognized him and shoved a microphone in his face. "Mr. Ashworth! We understand you're the brother of the owner of this... establishment. Do you have any comment on this tragic incident?" I looked at Gerry. A tiny, ridiculous spark of hope flickered within me. I didn't expect him to help me. I just prayed, for the sake of the fifteen years we'd shared, that he wouldn't kick me when I was down. Gerry met my gaze, then turned to the cameras. His voice was cold, clear, and carried across the chaos. "I am ashamed of her," he declared. "She will do anything for money. This isn't the first time she's done something like this." "I tried to warn her," he continued, a note of sorrowful resignation in his voice. "I told her to walk a righteous path, but she wouldn't listen." He paused for dramatic effect. "As of today, I have no relationship with her whatsoever." His words were the spark that ignited the powder keg. His words were the final straw that broke me. An enraged man grabbed a nearby trash can, full of rancid, slimy rainwater and garbage, and dumped it over my head. Slimy, stinking liquid ran through my hair, down my face, drenching me from head to toe. I just stood there, motionless. I smelled the stench on my own body and looked at Gerry's handsome, clean face. A laugh escaped my lips. A broken, hollow sound. And then the tears came, hot and unstoppable. The most important thing I had wasn't this little restaurant, or my reputation. It was that last, pathetic shred of trust. And now, Gerry—the brother I once would have died for—had utterly destroyed it. A twisted, triumphant smile spread across his face as he watched me in my miserable state. Pinching his nose with one hand and waving away the foul air with the other, he stepped toward me, his eyes gleaming with the same look one might give a piece of roadkill. "Sis—oh, sorry. Ma'am," he began, his voice dripping with condescending pity. "You can't live without a conscience. It's clear this restaurant of yours is finished." "But," he continued, as if bestowing a great mercy, "I can't bear to see even a stray dog starve on the street. I'll offer you a way out. Come work for our family as a maid. You can clean my toilet every day. See? I'm being good to you, aren't I?" He was offering me scraps from his throne. I couldn't understand. He was already living a life of unimaginable privilege. Why did he need to grind me into the dust? "Why?" my voice trembled. "Why are you doing this to me?" I was just trying to live, just trying to survive. Why couldn't he just let me be? He faltered for a second, the raw emotion on his young, unseasoned face betraying him. His eyes were filled with a shocking, deep-seated hatred. "If it wasn't for you," he snarled, "do you think I would have spent fifteen years of my life digging through trash?" "You owe me. This is your penance. You have to atone for your past!" All the memories of our life together, every sacrifice I'd made, flashed through my mind. All my love had somehow twisted into fuel for his hatred. I said nothing, just stared at him, my eyes burning. "I regret ever taking care of you!" I finally screamed. The words struck him like a physical blow. In a blind rage, he grabbed a nearby folding table and swung it at me. There was a sickening crack, and the world went dark. When I came to, my cheek was pressed against the filthy pavement. He had one foot planted firmly on my face. "If you don't come with me," he said, his voice a low, terrifying growl, "I'll make sure you go to prison."
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