Reborn to Reclaim my Voice

Chapter One: The Songbird Returned.

Qiara’s POV:

I sat in my window staring out into the garden. My fingers clicked on the window as I pondered my next move. In just one week I’d already changed my fate rapidly, being reborn most certainly had it’s perks.

A week Ago.

My breath tore out of me as I jolted upright in bed. A sharp pain clawed through my chest, my fingers digging in as if I could force air back into my lungs by sheer will. My heart hammered violently—too fast, too frantic, too alive.

Alive.

My eyes darted around the cramped matchbox of a room I’d lived in until I turned twenty and married the man I still considered one of life’s worst jokes. This place shouldn’t exist for me anymore. I shouldn’t exist in it.

Because I was dead.

The last thing I remembered was hovering over my own memorial service, watching my piece‑of‑shit family squeeze out tears for the audience like trained performers. I remembered the disgust. The grief I never got from them in life. The bitter, petty satisfaction in death.

So how was I back here?

Sweat trickled down my forehead as I clutched the sheets. My legs trembled when they hit the floor, as if I had to relearn how to use a body I no longer owned. I scanned the room for answers I already knew wouldn’t be there.

I didn’t even know what day it was. Hell, I didn’t know the year.

I stumbled to my dresser, where my old phone lay face down as though waiting for me. When I flipped it over, the screen glowed bright enough to burn the moment into my mind forever.

February 19th, 2025.

My throat tightened. No… no way. If that was right, then I was twenty again—half‑formed, wide‑eyed, still studying at StarCrest, the famed performing arts school in Novell. One of the most prestigious states in the Western Continent. A place I had fought tooth and nail to get into.

It also meant I was only engaged to Desmond Carrington. Not yet married to the trash heap wearing a man’s skin.

None of it made sense. How did I get here? What twisted miracle—or curse—had rewound my life?

And then it hit me.

The screen.

The questions.

The pen floating in purgatory’s hollow light.

The final words glowing back at me—

GOOD LUCK.

Had my answer really dragged me back? Had fate handed me a second chance—or shoved me into a cosmic joke?

Fear and excitement crashed into each other inside my chest, sending my pulse into overdrive. There was only one way to know the truth. I needed proof—something undeniable, something I remembered with absolute clarity.

And I knew exactly what moment was coming.

I bolted out of my room, feet pounding down the hall as I raced toward the kitchen. The instant I pushed open the door, the scene unfolded exactly as it had the first time: my so‑called family cheering, celebrating Angelina’s congratulatory letter from the Garden East committee. Her supposed “talent” on full display, their praise flowing like they were auditioning for “Most Supportive Family of the Year”.

Of course, none of them acknowledged that Nicholas had bribed a judge to get her in.

My gasp slipped out before I could stop it. All their heads snapped toward me.

Marcus sneered first.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Christian followed with a scoff.

“Why are you standing there like you’ve seen a ghost?”

A ghost. Oh, the irony. If only they knew. Not long ago, I was the ghost.

Angelina stepped forward, wide‑eyed and trembling in that delicate, innocent way she had mastered.

“Oh, Qiara! Please don’t be angry with me. I know we agreed neither of us would enter, but my friends said I had such a good chance, and I— I just couldn’t help it. Can’t you be happy for me?”

Agreed? More like our parents forced me not enter siting Angelina would feel bad if she got in over me.

Turns out, they just wanted to make sure I didn’t enter. What a fucking joke.

Classic Angelina though—spin a narrative, gather pity, and let everyone else fill in the rest. She wasn’t a great singer, but by God, she could act.

Right on cue, the choir chimed in.

“Jesus, Qiara!”

my mother snapped, her voice dripping venom.

“Why are you always so negative? It’s your sister! Be happy for once!”

My father added,

“Can you do nothing but start trouble?”

And my fiancé—my beloved fiancé—sighed dramatically.

“Honestly, Qiara… why do you make everyone around you miserable? Can’t you be more like Angelina?”

Nicholas’s sneer sharpened.

“Of course she can’t. She was raised by low‑class country fools.”

My fists clenched so hard my nails nearly drew blood. They never missed an opportunity to insult the only people who had ever loved me.

Then my father decided to play dictator.

“If you don’t stop bullying your sister, you can forget about your monthly allowance! Now apologize!”

I stood perfectly still, letting silence stretch between us. Then a slow smirk curled across my lips.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Father… but considering I haven’t said a single word, I’m not sure what exactly you want me to apologize for.”

His face flushed—humiliation buried hastily beneath arrogance. He would’ve rather swallowed glass than admit he was wrong.

“I—well… good. Just don’t cause trouble for your sister!”

I beamed at him, all false sweetness.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then I turned to Angelina.

“Congratulations. I just ‘know’ you earned every bit of that letter.”

Their stunned expressions were priceless—especially Nicholas’s.

Yes, dear brother, I know exactly what you did. And I’ll use it when I’m ready.

I walked away before any of them could recover, a cold, satisfied smile settling on my face.

It was real.

All of it.

I had truly been reborn.