Reborn on New Year's Eve My Family Sold Me for Revenge

On New Year's Eve, Vivian came up with a grotesque plan: she wanted to press Grandmother Henson's ashes into a set of dice. Her reasoning? To provide "ancestral guidance" for her indecisive son, Ryan.

In my previous life, I intervened immediately. I warned her that relying on the dead would only encourage Ryan's spineless nature. Under my intense persuasion, Vivian reluctantly abandoned the idea.

But as Ryan grew up, he hit wall after wall in his career. Meanwhile, Daisy, the neighbor's daughter—whose mother had actually turned her own parent's ashes into dice—soared through the corporate ranks, supposedly guided by spirits to become a top executive.

Vivian blamed me for every failure.

"It's all your fault, Alice! You stopped me from making those dice. If you hadn't interfered, Grandmother Henson's spirit would have guided Ryan to wealth and power long ago!"

Consumed by misplaced rage, my nephew's face turned a violent crimson. He snatched a shovel from the yard and swung it with all his might. The metal blade struck the back of my head, shattering my skull on that desolate mountain ridge.

My death wasn't enough. To protect Ryan, my brother and Vivian conspired with our parents. They painted my murder as a suicide, claiming I had taken my own life after a shameful affair.

When I opened my eyes again, the stench of blood and the phantom pain in my skull vanished.

I was back.

I had returned to that fateful New Year's Eve—the very moment Vivian proposed desecrating Grandmother Henson's remains.

——

"Vivian, why did you bring Grandmother Henson's ashes home? That's incredibly bad luck!"

My brother's voice pulled me from my daze. The familiar scene confirmed it: I had been reborn.

Vivian's voice cut through the room like a serrated knife. "What do you know? Grandmother Henson loved Ryan more than anyone when she was alive. Once I press her ashes into dice, Ryan can toss them whenever he's stuck. His great-grandmother will make the choices for him."

Her eyes gleamed with fanatic light. "Besides, Ryan has a weak constitution. If he gets sick, I can soak the dice in water to make bone-ash soup. It will bless him!"

My brother choked on his tea, visibly disturbed. He turned to me, his expression pleading.

"Alice, you're the only college graduate in the family. Talk some sense into her."

I sat silently, my gaze drifting to the corner of the room. My ten-year-old nephew was busy sweeping my expensive cosmetics off the vanity, smashing bottles onto the floor with a bratty grin.

In my past life, this was the moment I stepped in.

Back then, I had rushed forward to stop Vivian. I explained, using my medical background, that Grandmother Henson had been exposed to heavy metals during her life. I warned them that the dust from the ashes would trigger Ryan's asthma and that feeding a child "bone soup" was dangerous insanity.

For Ryan's sake, I had lectured them on the dangers of feudal superstition and urged them to raise him with independence. Later, I even used every connection I had to force that incompetent, lazy man into a high-paying job.

And how did they repay me?

They treated my kindness like garbage.

When they saw Daisy's success next door—attributed entirely to her "spirit dice"—and compared it to Ryan's mediocrity, their resentment festered. Ryan, at thirty, was still a low-level employee, unmarried and broke.

The accusations began.

"If it weren't for you stopping me back then, my son would be the rich one now!"

"She's just jealous," my mother had sneered. "She can't stand to see Ryan do well. She stole his luck!"

The memory of my final moments flashed before my eyes. Vivian, standing over my broken body, spitting on my corpse.

"So what if you went to college? You think you're so high and mighty? If you hadn't stopped me, my son wouldn't be poor and alone! You deserved to die!"

And Ryan—the boy I tried to save—screaming as he brought the shovel down again and again.

"It's your fault! You ruined my life! You made me work like a dog! Go to hell!"

I died alone on that cold ridge, my soul lingering just long enough to watch my family weave a story about me eloping with some wild man and killing myself in shame.

I forced the bile back down my throat. The hatred burning in my chest was cold and hard as ice.

God had given me a second chance. This time, I wouldn't be their savior.

I would be a spectator.

I unclenched my fists and smoothed my expression into a mask of indifference. I would not save them again. I would sit back and watch them walk the path of destruction they so desperately craved.