Living a Second Chance as the Richest Daughter

Stepping inside the small house, Anna—trapped in Shane's body—felt an overwhelming mix of emotions. Mr. Jing followed closely behind, his gaze subtly scanning the modest surroundings.

The living room was even smaller than she remembered. There was no proper couch, just a wooden chair placed in front of a small, outdated TV. The walls bore the marks of time—faded paint, cracks forming at the edges, and a ceiling fan that barely worked.

"Alna, I'll buy them some soft drinks," her grandmother, Minda, suddenly offered, her voice gentle yet distant. Without waiting for a response, she stepped outside, leaving Anna alone with her mother.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Anna took the moment to absorb the familiar yet foreign space. It was the same house she had lived in for years, yet now, with Shane's eyes, everything seemed so much smaller, so much more fragile.

The living room and kitchen merged into one space, barely separated. A small, rickety wooden table stood just a few feet away from the kitchen sink, just big enough for four people. Against one wall sat a tiny fridge, humming faintly, next to an old cabinet filled with plates, mismatched kitchenware, and utensils that had seen better days.

Beyond the main area, there were only two rooms, partitioned by thin curtains instead of doors. Privacy was a luxury they couldn't afford. Anna had spent countless nights trying to drown out the muffled voices of her parents, their hushed conversations—and sometimes, things she wasn't supposed to hear.

Anna never had siblings. A part of her had always been grateful for that. She knew her parents couldn't afford to raise another child. Her mother, Alna, had been smart enough to take precautions, choosing birth control despite the judgmental whispers of neighbors who thought it wasn't a woman's place to make such decisions.

That was the kind of woman Alna was—practical, resilient, and unafraid to do what needed to be done.

And in many ways, Anna had grown up to be just like her.

"How do you know my daughter?" Alna's voice trembled as she looked between Shane and Mr. Jing, suspicion flickering in her tired eyes.

Mr. Jing stiffened, glancing at Anna—Shane, as the world saw her. His brows furrowed ever so slightly, the confusion evident in his expression. Shane wasn't someone who had friends. She barely acknowledged anyone outside of her immediate circle, and Mr. Jing, who had been by her side for years, was certain she had never known an "Anna." Even more baffling was how she knew about this place—a part of the city so far removed from Shane's life that it was almost impossible to imagine her setting foot here.

"I met her at the hospital a month ago," Anna said, forcing her voice to remain steady. The lump in her throat threatened to suffocate her, but she swallowed it down, refusing to break. She had to stay in control, had to keep her emotions in check. If she let them take over now, she would fall apart. And she couldn't afford that. Not yet.

Alna's brows furrowed. "When?"

"February 27," Anna answered without hesitation. "I saw her in the hospital garden."

It wasn't a lie. That was the first time she had seen Shane—sitting alone, looking out into the distance, lost in her own world. They had spoken briefly. No names, no introductions. Just two strangers sharing a moment in a place filled with fading hope.

Alna's breath hitched. Her face crumpled, and before she could stop herself, she broke down into quiet sobs.

Anna's heart clenched. She wanted—needed—to hold her mother, to comfort her the way a daughter should. But she couldn't. Because to Alna, she wasn't Anna. She was a stranger wearing another person's face.

Mr. Jing remained silent, his presence heavy but uncertain. He wasn't sure how to ease the weight of the moment, wasn't sure what to say or do. His gaze flickered toward Shane—toward Anna, who stood rigid, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.

And then, realization dawned in his eyes.

That date.

February 27.

That was the night Shane had suffered a sudden attack. The night she collapsed, slipping into a coma that no one had been able to explain.

"My daughter…" Alna choked out through her tears. "She died that night."

Anna's breath caught in her throat.

The words hung in the air, suffocating her.

She had known, of course. Known that she was no longer Anna to the world, that everyone believed she was gone. But hearing it—hearing her mother say it with such raw pain—felt like being stabbed in the chest.

Her voice barely worked. "How?"

Alna wiped at her tears with trembling hands. "She never told us she was sick. I didn't even know… not until I found the prescription beside her bed." Her voice cracked. "We tried to wake her up, but it was too late."

Anna's breath shuddered as she fought against the sobs threatening to escape her lips. Her mother's words echoed in her head—We tried to wake her up, but it was too late.

She had died.

In their eyes, in their hearts, she was gone.

Her body had been found lifeless, unmoving. But here she was, standing before them in another person's skin, unable to tell them the truth. Unable to hold them, to tell them she was right here.

Mr. Jing shifted beside her, his usual calm demeanor unsettled by the raw grief in the room. His gaze flickered to Shane—no, to Anna—uncertain and searching, as if trying to piece together something that no longer made sense.

Alna sniffled, regaining enough composure to speak again. "She was always so independent… so stubborn. She never wanted to worry us." A bitter laugh escaped her lips, one filled with sorrow. "Even in the end, she kept it all to herself."

Anna felt a sharp pang in her chest. It was true—she had never told them. She thought she could handle it on her own. She thought she had more time.

Her grandmother, Minda, returned just then, carrying a plastic bag filled with bottles of soft drinks. She paused when she saw Alna wiping away tears, her gaze flickering between her daughter and their unexpected guests.

"What's wrong?" Minda asked, setting the drinks on the small table.

Alna exhaled shakily. "She knew Anna… from the hospital."

Minda turned to look at Anna—at Shane's face—her sharp eyes scanning her as if searching for something. "Is that so?"

Anna forced herself to nod. "Yes... I wanted to see where she grew up." It wasn't a complete lie. She did want to see the place that had shaped so many of her memories, both good and bad.

Minda studied her for a moment longer, then sighed, pulling out a wooden chair and sinking into it. "You must be one of the last people to have seen her."

Anna hesitated before answering. "Maybe." She wasn't entirely sure, but it was possible. The last thing she remembered was talking to Shane, and after that, she couldn't recall speaking to anyone once she got home.

There was a pause before Alna spoke again, quieter this time. "Did she… did she seem happy?"

The question hit Anna like a blow to the chest.

How was she supposed to answer that?

She thought about it—about that fleeting conversation with Shane in the hospital garden. Shane had seemed distant, tired… but not necessarily unhappy. Maybe she had lost some hope, after everything—unable to afford the medicine, unsure if she could even admit herself into the hospital. But losing hope didn't mean she was unhappy, right? Shane was grateful for the time she had left, but at the same time, her circumstances made her feel like it was unfair to live longer when she could barely take care of herself.

"I think," Anna started carefully, "she was at peace."

It was a half-lie, one that Anna could barely bring herself to believe. Anna knew in her heart that she had gone to sleep peacefully that night despite her fever, but the thought of her leaving her family so early—leaving without the chance to say everything that needed to be said—felt wrong. Anna wasn't sure how to reconcile the peace she had seemed to find with the pain of the untimely goodbye.

Alna covered her mouth, her shoulders trembling as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Minda reached over, placing a comforting hand on her daughter's back, though her own expression remained composed.

Anna clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. She wanted to scream, to tell them that she was right here, that she hadn't left them. But it would be pointless. They wouldn't believe her.

Instead, she swallowed her grief, blinking away the tears that threatened to betray her.

Mr. Jing, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Alna nodded weakly, offering a tight smile of gratitude before turning back to Anna. "Thank you for coming here. For remembering her."

Anna forced a smile, even as her heart shattered into pieces.

"Of course," she whispered.

Because that was all she could do now—remember.