1 In my past life, my family was cursed with a secret I couldn’t share: they could all hear the thoughts of the girl who had stolen my place. Only I was deaf to her voice. Returning to the Powell mansion, I stood before them in faded, threadbare clothes. Her sweet, venomous thoughts filled the air: [Her foster parents aren’t poor. She’s dressing like this to win sympathy.] My parents’ warmth turned to ice. Years of hardship had given me stomach cancer; every dollar went to painkillers. But Jane spun lies in her mind: [She’s not sick—she’s a gambling addict. Those are drugs.] Their flicker of concern became disgust. They dragged me to rehab. When I vomited from pain, she accused me of being pregnant. I begged and pleaded, but the Powells wouldn’t listen. They locked me away, and the staff tortured me until I died. When I opened my eyes, I was back at the beginning. But this time, I could hear her too. I looked straight at Jane and said, “I can hear you.” … The moment the Powells found me, I was digging through a dumpster for something to eat, my hands trembling from hunger. Jane stared at my patched-up jeans, and her silent voice slithered into my mind. [Her foster parents aren't even poor. She must be dressing like this on purpose, scavenging for scraps just to win Mom and Dad's sympathy. Should I say something?] Instantly, the pity on my birth parents’ faces curdled into revulsion. Just like before. In my past life, I couldn't hear her thoughts, couldn't understand why their expressions changed so abruptly. I just assumed they were disgusted by how dirty I was. But this time was different. I looked directly at Jane. “I can hear you,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “And I’m not wearing these clothes for sympathy. They’re the only ones I own. I’m digging through the trash because my foster parents don't feed me. If I don't, I starve.” Jane’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn't expected me to be so direct, to voice her inner thoughts out loud. She bit her lip, her mind racing. [Can she really hear me? How can she lie without even blushing? I looked into it. Her foster parents treated her like a princess…] As my parents' gazes filled with suspicion, I shoved up the sleeve of my tattered shirt, revealing a roadmap of old scars and fresh bruises. “Did you really look into it?” I challenged Jane. “Because all they ever did was beat me. I can’t remember a day in my life when I wasn’t covered in wounds. If you don’t believe me, take me to a hospital for an examination. But stop slandering me in your head.” Jane’s face went pale. She shrank behind Mrs. Powell, her thoughts turning pitiful. [She’s terrifying. She’s hurting herself just to get Mom and Dad’s attention.] [She doesn't even need to do all this. She’s their real daughter. They’d love her anyway.] I turned to the Powells. “Take me to a hospital.” Seeing the marks covering my body, their eyes reddened with a fresh wave of pity, their faces a canvas of confusion. Who was telling the truth? Mr. Powell stepped forward, trying to smooth things over. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said to me. “Your sister… we’ve spoiled her. Don’t take what she thinks to heart. She’s just scared we’re going to cast her out.” I knew Jane’s place in their hearts was secure. She was the one who had been by their side all these years. I agreed to come back, but not for their affection. Last time, their blindness to Jane’s manipulations cost me my chance at treatment. This time, I wouldn't let her silent lies destroy me. They ushered me into their car, ready to take me to my new home. But a sharp, agonizing pain seized my stomach. My face went white, my body started to tremble uncontrollably, and I fumbled in my pocket for my pills. I had just gotten the bottle open when Jane’s voice echoed in my head again. [Oh my god, she’s an addict. That’s not a painkiller bottle, it’s full of drugs. This is so bad…] The concern on my parents’ faces vanished, replaced by that familiar look of revulsion. Mr. Powell stopped the car, reaching over to snatch the bottle from my hands. But I was faster. I swallowed two pills and, in one swift motion, shoved a few more into his open mouth. I clamped my hand over his lips, tilting his head back like you would a stray cat you're trying to deworm, and held it there until he swallowed. 2. Only then did I let go. “Elara!” my mother shrieked. “What are you doing?” The medicine was already working, dulling the fire in my stomach. I shrugged. “We should probably head to the hospital. If you start having withdrawals, you’ll have to check into rehab with me.” Jane’s face was ashen, her mind scrambling to regain control. [She’s terrifying. The drugs must be making her act like this. We have to get her to a facility, quickly—] Before she could finish the thought, my hand shot out and I slapped her across the face. Then I gave her the same treatment, forcing a few pills down her throat. As she choked them down, I looked at her with a cold smile. “You know damn well what they are.” Jane fell silent. My father’s face was a thunderous mask, but he had no time to rage at me. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and sped toward the nearest hospital. They ran every test imaginable: blood draws, an endoscopy, even a full toxicology screen. There was no sign of drug addiction. Still, my father wasn't convinced. He insisted I was just a casual user and forced me through another battery of tests. That’s when they found it. The cancer. And the pills, they confirmed, were nothing more than high-strength painkillers. My parents couldn’t meet my eyes, their faces etched with shame. I looked at them. “So, are we still going to rehab?” My mother forced a laugh and reached for my hand. “Elara, honey, what have you been through? How could you have gotten cancer?” My voice was flat. “By living a life where I never knew where my next meal was coming from.” “The people who raised me swapped me with their daughter, Jane. They wanted me dead. A census worker showed up at their door, so they were forced to register me. They saw me as a waste of food, starving me for days on end before tossing me scraps like a dog.” “As I got older, I started scavenging from dumpsters just to survive. The constant hunger turned into a chronic illness, but there was no money for a doctor. I just learned to live with the pain. When I was old enough to work, I could finally afford to eat, but by then, it was already cancer. Every cent I made went to painkillers. With no money left for food, I went back to the dumpsters.” “When you found me, I thought… I thought I’d finally have enough to eat.” I let out a bitter laugh. The guilt on their faces deepened. Jane chose that moment to make her move. She approached my bed, tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry, Elara,” she sobbed, slapping her own cheek. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who stole your life…” Her strategy had shifted. Now, she was playing the victim. [Mom and Dad must hate me now. It’s all my fault. I’m the child of her foster parents. If it weren’t for me, my sister wouldn’t have suffered like this.] As predicted, my parents immediately rushed to her side. “Jane, honey, it’s not your fault. It’s your parents’ fault.” “That’s right, you had no choice in the matter! They switched you, you didn’t ask for this…” Just then, the hospital room door burst open, and my foster parents rushed in. My foster mother grabbed my hand, her face a mask of deep concern. “Elara, sweetie, are you okay? Why would you go digging through the trash?” she cried. “We gave you everything, we raised you like a princess! We know you were upset that we couldn’t buy you all the designer bags you wanted, but you can’t punish us like this…” She broke down into heart-wrenching sobs. My foster father hung his head, wiping away fake tears. “We’re just glad you’ve found your real parents. They’re wealthy. They can give you the life you deserve. It’s our fault we couldn’t provide for you…” 3. Every word was a carefully crafted performance, painting me as a vain, ungrateful brat. Jane’s thoughts chimed in right on cue: [But Elara said they were horrible to her?] My mother’s face flushed with anger. She spun around and slapped me. “Elara! Is this what you call being mistreated?” she spat. “I can’t believe you’d lie like that, pretending to be a victim just because they wouldn't buy you a handbag! You manipulated us, tried to turn us against Jane!” “Thank god your foster parents showed up to set the record straight!” My foster mother immediately dropped to her knees. “Please, don’t hit her!” she begged. “If you have to hit someone, hit me! It’s my fault, I didn’t raise her right… I never laid a hand on her, not once! You can’t either!” My mother was furious. “This is what happens when you spoil a child! Look what she’s become!” But my foster mother remained on the floor, weeping with guilt. “It’s not her fault. We just couldn’t give her the life she wanted.” [Her foster parents’ clothes are so old and worn out. They look so poor,] Jane thought, fanning the flames. My parents looked at the couple—their threadbare clothes, their graying hair, the exhausted lines etched on their faces. The image of me, their daughter, throwing a tantrum over luxury goods while these poor people struggled to raise me, sent my mother into a fresh rage. “They worked so hard for you, and you repay them by pretending to be homeless? You’re unbelievable.” Having already died once, I felt strangely calm. “They’re lying,” I said simply. “And the hospital already confirmed I have cancer.” My foster father immediately shot back, “Elara, how could you lie to your birth parents like this? Just because the doctor is your cousin doesn’t mean you can make up something so serious!” I’d had enough. I walked to the door and raised my voice. “Excuse me! Doctor! My family says I’m faking my cancer and they want to stop my treatment!” A passing nurse and my own doctor, who was standing down the hall, both turned and hurried over. “What is wrong with you people?” the nurse scolded them. “Your daughter has stomach cancer and you want to refuse treatment? If she gets help now, she has a chance. If you do nothing, she might not have more than a few months…” My doctor’s brows furrowed. “Who here is Elara’s legal guardian?” My foster parents paled, realizing their lie had been exposed. The foster father stepped forward, trying to salvage the situation. “We are, we are. She’s just throwing a little tantrum, you know how kids are. We’ll just take her home now and get in touch with you later.” It was a clever move. To the doctor, it would sound like I was being difficult and they were responsible parents. To my real parents, it would confirm their suspicion that the doctor was my cousin. I didn’t bother arguing. I looked straight at the doctor. “My foster parents are claiming you’re my cousin, and that I paid you to fake my diagnosis.” The doctor’s face darkened. “That’s absurd! I’m nobody’s cousin!” He immediately called for the hospital administrator. Seeing things spiral out of control, my foster father tried to grab me and leave. The doctor blocked their path, his expression grim. “This is a serious accusation that affects my professional integrity. You will wait here for the police to arrive and take your statements.” Jane’s face went white. “You can’t call the police!” she blurted out. I smiled.
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