Because I couldn't save my sister in the stampede at the concert, I spent the rest of my life in the hatred of my parents.

Everyone said it was my fault she died.

Even my mother, before she passed away, kept chanting my sister's name and cursing me bitterly.

"Why wasn't it you who died? Why were you so selfish? Why didn't you save your sister?"

If I could do it all over again, when the stampede happened, I would lift my sister out of the crowd and use my body to cushion her, so she could live.

Maybe my parents wouldn't hate me anymore.

***

In the deafening music, I was stunned for a moment. I was reborn, back at the concert of the famous singer, Peter Wood.

In my past life, the stampede had devastating consequences. Hundreds of young lives were lost.

Hundreds of families were shattered.

Among them was the most cherished daughter of my parents and my little sister, Brenda White.

I glanced at the time on my old phone. The stampede was less than fifteen minutes away.

I was a temporary worker at the concert, and it was my duty to prevent this disaster.

I ran desperately, searching for Brenda, who should have been at her drawing class, and looking for someone in charge.

Thanks to my past life's memories, I quickly pinpointed the source of the stampede.

There, I saw Brenda, excitedly waving her glow stick and dancing to the music.

I shouted, but my voice was drowned out by the roaring cheers.

I called her, but she didn't respond.

In my work uniform, I squeezed through the crowd, trying to clear a path and move the fans away.

But no one listened. The view was too good; no one wanted to move.

Just seven feet away from Brenda, I looked up and saw her arguing with a girl in front of her.

With two minutes to go before the stampede, I didn't want to live with regret this time.

I pushed through the crowd like a fish fighting the waves, desperately making my way to her.

Just as I was about to reach her, the girl in front of Brenda collided with the barrier and fell, dragging Brenda down with her from the three-foot-high platform.

My heart sank.

Screams erupted from below, but they were swallowed up by the crowd.

Most of the excited young people didn't even notice what was happening and moved forward, driven by the momentum.

Without barriers, people began to fall one by one.

I blocked the crowd from the side, pulled out a strong guy, and told him to stop others from approaching the collapsed platform.

Then a few temporary workers joined me in trying to control the crowd.

I jumped down from the platform, calling out urgently for Brenda and searching for her.

It was dark below, lit only by flashing outside lights.

"Sis, help me. I'm here. My foot is hurt," Brenda cried out.

Her voice was with distress.

I barely had time to feel the nostalgia of being called "sis" and couldn't pay attention to the surrounding cries for help. I held her up by her waist, trying to lift her.

She was still crying and complaining, not wanting to stand up.

The concert reached its climax, and fans were so focused on their idols that they surged forward like a wave.

The staff couldn't stop them. It was too late.

"Brenda, if you don't want to be crushed down here, get up immediately. I'll get you out," I said.

Perhaps my urgent and fierce expression scared her, or maybe seeing people falling from above made her realize the severity of the situation. Her eyes flashed with panic.

She grabbed onto me and stood up.

She ordered, "Rose, I'm the star daughter of My parents. You promised them you'd take care of me. You have to get me out."

I ignored her, scanning the area for any way to climb up or tools.

If we didn't get out soon, the whole platform would collapse.

I crouched down and grabbed Brenda's legs.

"I'll lift you while you stretch out to find something to climb up on," I said.

As soon as I lifted her, someone above kicked her in the face, and she fell back down.

She covered her face unhappily.

"It's not high enough, and there are too many people up there. You crouch down, and I'll step on your shoulders to get up," she grumbled.

I couldn't quite describe how I felt, but to save her life, I did as she asked.

Even though I was four years older than Brenda, I was weaker. Her feet on my shoulders felt like they were grinding my bones.

I pushed against the ground and held myself up, slowly lifting her higher.

"Higher, higher!" Brenda urged.

She stepped heavily on my right shoulder.

My legs trembled. I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth, and tried to straighten up.

I held my breath, afraid that if I exhaled, I wouldn't be able to keep going.

I didn't know how long it lasted, my cheeks burning red and my head feeling like it was going to explode. Finally, Brenda found something to hold onto.

The weight on my shoulder was gone. She stepped onto my head and nimbly flipped up.

I was thrown back down to the bottom.

She patted her chest, breathing heavily, and looked down at me with a smile.

She reached out her hand, but before I could respond, she pulled it back as if afraid I'd pull her down again. With a quick, evasive glance, she shouted something at me and turned to leave.

It seemed she said she would find someone to rescue us.

A corner of my clothes was grabbed by a girl who looked even younger than Brenda. Her face was streaked with tears.

She pleaded, "Could you help me up too? My parents must be so worried about me."

It seemed that apart from me, every other child had parents who cared for them.

I smiled bitterly and crouched down.

The little girl cried as she climbed up, repeatedly saying, "Thank you so much."

More and more people climbed onto my shoulders, thanking me as they did.

People kept falling off, and more kept climbing on. My shoulders were battered, and I was covered in blood and flesh.

I told myself that it was okay and that I could save as many people as possible.

As I shakily lifted yet another person, the platform couldn't hold up any longer and collapsed with a thunderous crash.

I fell to the ground, crushed at the bottom, and exhaled deeply.

'Why am I reborn on this day?' I thought.

Maybe it was because the unresolved obsession and pain I experienced made me lose the courage to continue living.

Seeing Brenda's relieved smile, I felt a sense of peace.

I quietly waited for the air in my lungs to be squeezed out, closed my eyes calmly, and felt no more regrets.

'Mom, Dad, I saved Brenda this time. You won't hate me anymore, right?' I thought.

I never believed in ghosts or deities, but my soul drifted uncontrollably to one place.

The concert had ended abruptly due to the sudden stampede.

I saw Brenda. She looked panic-stricken, pulling out a box of mixed paint from her bag to smear it on her clothes and hands.

She then waved down a taxi, jumped in, and headed to the same place I was drifting towards.

When I floated back home, Brenda was already sprawled on the couch, excitedly playing on her phone.

Without looking up, she shouted, "Mom, clean my shoes and wash my clothes. They're covered in paint."

Our mother replied, "Sure, dear. You've had a tough day. I've made you some chicken soup. It'll be ready soon."

She stirred the chicken soup in the pot with a ladle, smiling as she poured a bowl and set it under the fan to cool.

I floated behind Brenda and saw her editing the concert video, preparing to post it on social media.

Our dad cut a whole plate of peeled watermelon, stuck a small fork in it, and placed it on the coffee table, feeding her a bite with affection.

Our mom looked at the pile of shoes, bags, and dirty clothes Brenda had thrown around.

She sulked, "Where is that useless Rose? She didn't come home for dinner, and now that Brenda is back from painting, she's still out messing around. She doesn't care about how hard we work. That ungrateful girl should just stay out there and never come back."

My dad got up and threw the dirty clothes into the basket.

"If she stays out there, it's less worry for us. But who will do the laundry and cooking then? Luckily, we have another daughter. Brenda, when you grow up and become a famous painter, hire a maid for your mom. Then your mom won't have to see your sister's face every day. Isn't that right, Brenda?"

Hearing my parents' words, even as a soul, I couldn't help but feel a chill.

In this house, I was just a servant at their beck and call.

Even a servant got paid. I wasn't even that lucky.

And now, as they wished, the daughter they despised was truly dead out there, never to return or annoy them again.

Brenda kept her head down, fiddling with her phone, blocking six posts from the concert my parents had sent.

She took a moment to comfort them, saying, "Don't worry. I'll buy you a big villa and a luxury car, and I'll hire eight maids for you two."

Our parents couldn't stop smiling.

After the chicken soup cooled down, our mother handed it to Brenda.

She said, "Drink up, Brenda. Don't let your sister see. She's so greedy she'd eat a whole chicken. And your dad picked out the sweetest watermelon for you. Don't leave any for your sister."

Our dad swallowed as he watched the chicken soup. Brenda finished the bowl in one gulp, ate a couple of pieces of watermelon, and nodded eagerly.

I could only smile bitterly.

The next day was Sunday. Our mom got up in the morning and saw the laundry basket was still full. Her expression darkened immediately.

She grabbed the clothes rack and kicked open my bedroom door.

The so-called bedroom was a tiny storeroom, just big enough for a single bed.

I used to have a bedroom, but it became Brenda's art studio later.

Seeing the room empty, my mother was furious.

She barked, "That damn girl, staying out all night. When she comes back, I'll break her legs."

She threw the clothes rack down and called me.

Of course, she couldn't reach me.

She cursed and then, with my dad who had just woken up, cursed at me again.

They only stopped when the noise woke Brenda. She angrily snapped at them.

Brenda said, "I'm hungry," and they scrambled to make her breakfast.

I felt a bit of relief, finally free from preparing different breakfasts for them.

At the table, there were two bottles of milk. One was for Brenda to drink, and the other was for her to wash her hands.

"Thanks, Mom. I haven't had your breakfast for so long. Yours is the best," Brenda cooed.

Our parents were delighted.

Brenda was always the beautiful, cute, and talented one. She was the pride of the family.

No matter how hard I tried, like representing the school at a physics competition and having the potential to be admitted by a top school, I was just a bookworm to them.

They wouldn't give me money for the competition, so I had to earn it myself.

In my last life, I made some money working at a concert, but Brenda died in a stampede.

In the end, I missed the competition.

On the eve of the college entrance exam, they forbade me from going.

They blamed me for not saving Brenda and saying I didn't deserve to go to college or live a good life.

I explained to them that I didn't know Brenda had sneaked into the concert and that I would have saved her if I'd known.

They wouldn't listen and made me apologize to Brenda's body.

After breakfast, our mom urged our dad to do the dishes and grumbled about the dirty clothes before lounging on the sofa with her phone.

The news about the concert stampede was all over social media.

She shook her head as she watched.

"Look at these young people, wasting their time on concerts. Tickets cost almost ten thousand dollars. Your dad and I can't even afford the cheapest one. Crazy. Why don't they rob a bank instead?

"Brenda, don't be like these idiots. None of them amount to anything," she said.

Brenda's face twitched with anger.

"Well, now things are messed up, right? People have died, right? Brainless fans are trash and poison for society," our mom added.

Brenda shot up from her seat.

She grumbled, "Mom, why are you so mean? Can't you be a bit kinder?"

She then stormed back to her room, leaving our mom puzzled.

To support her favorite star, she argued with our mother.

It seemed she didn't remember at all that I stayed in the pit to save her and might have become the so-called "trash and poison" our mother mentioned.

Our mom received a call from the police, asking them to come and claim my body.

My parents were stunned.

My mom still angry from Brenda's outburst, snapped.

"Is this some actor Rose hired? Playing tricks now? What a sick joke! Tell her to get back here and wash the dirty clothes."

I didn't hire anyone. I was really dead.

If they knew I died trying to save their dear daughter, would they feel even a little guilty or regretful?