chapter 4

From the very next day onward, I began going to kindergarten regularly. At first, it felt awkward. I was still the same me inside—a grown adult who had once lived an entire life, read countless books, and understood things these tiny children could never imagine. But now, each morning, I carried a small bag, wore a little uniform, and joined my classmates as though I were just one of them.

Even though the lessons were ridiculously simple for me—counting apples, singing nursery rhymes, tracing alphabets—I found myself strangely at peace. I already knew everything they were teaching, but I went not for knowledge. I went for my friends: Ming, Mei, and Tao.

They greeted me every morning with wide smiles and waving hands.

“Xiao Wei! Come sit with us!” Ming would shout, tugging me toward their table.

Let’s draw together today,” Mei always suggested, pulling out her box of crayons.

And Tao, ever the generous one, often handed me part of his snack before I could even open mine. “Friends share,” he would insist.

Their warmth was infectious, melting away the last of my resistance. Slowly, I stopped thinking of myself as an outsider.

Because of my background as an adult, I naturally excelled in everything. While others struggled to hold their pencils correctly, I neatly completed worksheets. When the teacher asked questions, I always knew the answers. Soon, my neat handwriting and calm demeanor made me stand out.

One afternoon, after a small class vote, the teacher announced, “From now on, Xiao Wei will be our Class Representative!”

The children clapped, some confused about what it even meant, but happy nonetheless. I smiled shyly, though inside I thought, Of course. This is nothing new.

Being CR was natural for me. I organized my classmates, helped the teacher pass out books, comforted crying kids, and sometimes even mediated arguments over toys. It was almost as though I were a young adult forced into a leadership role among toddlers.

One day, during dismissal, the teacher laughed as she spoke to my brother. “Your sister is like a little adult! Sometimes I forget she’s just a child. She looks after everyone as if she were my assistant.”

My brother chuckled, glancing at me with pride. “That’s just how she is. She likes acting all mature.”

“I’m not acting!” I protested, puffing my cheeks. “I just don’t like when things are messy.”

He ruffled my hair. “See? Even her excuses sound like a grown-up’s.”

The teacher and my brother laughed together, leaving me fuming—but secretly, I enjoyed their teasing.

As the weeks went by, my bond with Ming, Mei, and Tao grew deeper. One day, Grandma suggested something that made my heart leap.

“Why don’t you invite your friends for a sleepover? The house is big enough, and it will be good for you to spend more time with them outside of school.”

At the idea, I bounced in excitement. Soon enough, my three friends arrived one Saturday evening, each carrying small overnight bags and wearing bright smiles.

The living room echoed with laughter as we spread out our toys. We built pillow forts, shared snacks, and even played hide-and-seek in the grand halls of the estate.

At bedtime, we all squeezed into my room. Mei whispered stories, Ming made silly jokes, and Tao kept asking for more biscuits even though we had already brushed our teeth.

From outside the door, I heard my brother chuckling. “They’re so loud, I can’t believe they’ll actually fall asleep.”

Grandpa replied warmly, “Let them. Childhood should sound like this.”

That night, as we finally drifted off, I realized something precious: because of this sleepover, not only did my friendship with Ming, Mei, and Tao deepen, but our families also grew closer. Parents exchanged greetings, grandparents chatted, and bonds formed that went beyond simple schoolyard connections.

Of course, my brother made sure to keep his distance from mixing business with these friendships. “Childhood bonds should stay pure,” he muttered once when Grandma teased him about arranging connections. “This isn’t about business.”

I secretly admired him for that.

The highlight of the kindergarten year came soon after: Sports Day.

On the morning of the event, the entire schoolyard was decorated with colorful flags and balloons. Small tracks were drawn in white chalk, and cheerful banners hung from the walls. Parents and relatives filled the stands, clapping and cheering for their little ones.

To my surprise and delight, both sets of my grandparents attended. Their smiles were radiant as they waved at me. Even my uncle, Mei Fang, came—though he was usually too busy with work.

“Uncle!” I shouted, running up to him.

He bent down, scooping me into his arms. “My little niece, you look so energetic today.”

I grinned. “You actually came!”

He smiled faintly, though his eyes carried a trace of weariness. At thirty-four, he was still unmarried, without even a girlfriend. Family whispers often circled around his first love—a mysterious woman he had once adored but for reasons unknown, they had parted ways. He never spoke of her, and I didn’t dare ask.

But seeing him there that day, clapping for me, filled me with warmth.

When the races began, I stood at the starting line with Ming, Mei, and Tao. My heart pounded with excitement.

“Ready… set… go!”

We all dashed forward, our tiny legs pumping furiously. The crowd cheered, and I could hear my grandparents shouting my name. Laughter bubbled out of me as I ran, faster and faster, feeling the wind in my face. For once, I wasn’t thinking about maturity, reincarnation, or responsibilities. I was simply a child running with her friends.

At the finish line, we collapsed into a heap of giggles, regardless of who had won.

Later, during the tug-of-war, I pulled with all my strength, shouting encouragement to my teammates. During the relay race, I sprinted so hard that my shoes nearly flew off. By the end, my cheeks were flushed, my hair messy, but my smile unshakable.

From the sidelines, my brother watched silently. Though he was busy that day, he had made time just to see me. His gaze was filled with quiet pride.

As the sun began to set, the events drew to a close. We gathered for a final round of cheering, and then everyone began heading home. I was utterly exhausted, but my heart overflowed with happiness.

When my brother came to fetch me, I stumbled into his arms.

“Tired?” he asked gently.

“Mhm,” I mumbled, nuzzling into his chest.

He carried me effortlessly, my small body cradled against him. In the car ride home, I rested my head on his shoulder. The rhythmic movement of the vehicle, the warmth of his arms, and the echo of laughter from the day lulled me into sleep.

As I drifted off, I heard faint voices—Grandma praising my effort, Grandpa chuckling about my energy, and Uncle Mei Fang promising to visit more often.

But the sound that stayed with me the longest was my brother’s quiet murmur.

“That’s my sister. No matter how much she grows, I’ll always be there for her.”

And with that, I fell into the most peaceful slumber, my lips curved in a sleepy smile.

That night, long after I had been tucked into bed, my thoughts lingered on the day. I had started kindergarten only reluctantly, convinced I would never fit in. Yet now, here I was—class representative, friend, granddaughter, niece, and most of all, little sister.

The laughter of my friends, the proud cheers of my family, and the steady heartbeat of my brother as I slept in his arms all became proof that perhaps… this second chance at life was worth embracing.

Childhood, once lost, was slowly returning to me. And I vowed I would live it fully this time.

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