She Woke Up at Her Own Funeral
Rain always sounded romantic in movies.
Soft. Melancholic. Poetic.
The kind of rain that made people fall in love under streetlights, kiss under umbrellas, and make terrible life choices.
This rain?
This rain sounded like someone up there had lost a lawsuit.
It slammed against the glass in violent bursts, rattling the windowpanes hard enough to make Evelyn wonder if heaven had outsourced weather management to an angry drummer.
Which was interesting.
Because, as far as she remembered—
She was dead.
Very dead.
Not “oops-I-fainted-at-work” dead.
Not “please-call-an-ambulance” dead.
The full package.
Cold floor.
Warm blood.
A knife in her chest.
And her business partner, Kevin—the man who once cried over a broken office coffee machine—standing over her with tears in his eyes and a blade in his hand.
Classy.
Very emotionally confusing.
She remembered staring at him while her lungs slowly forgot how breathing worked.
She remembered the metallic taste of blood.
She remembered thinking—
I knew I shouldn’t have let him handle the budget.
Then everything had gone black.
Completely.
Utterly.
Professionally.
And yet—
“...Mmph.”
She inhaled sharply.
Air rushed into her lungs like a rude guest who hadn’t been invited but came anyway.
Her eyes snapped open.
No hospital lights.
No ceiling tiles.
No dramatic afterlife tunnel.
Instead—
Velvet.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time, just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.
Nope.
Still velvet.
Dark crimson curtains.
A canopy bed larger than her old apartment.
Gold-trimmed furniture.
Crystal lamps.
Fresh roses.
Old books.
And something faintly woody in the air—cedar, maybe, mixed with wax and expensive family trauma.
Evelyn stared at the ceiling.
Then she stared some more.
Then she said the only thing any rational adult woman would say after waking up in what looked suspiciously like Dracula’s vacation home.
“…What.”
Her voice came out high.
Tiny.
Soft.
Ridiculously cute.
Evelyn froze.
Her expression didn’t change.
Inside?
Absolute chaos.
No.
She cleared her throat.
Or at least tried to.
“…What.”
Still adorable.
Still illegal.
Slowly…
Very slowly…
She raised her hand.
And immediately wished she hadn’t.
Tiny fingers.
Round knuckles.
Soft baby skin.
Chubby.
Unreasonably chubby.
Evelyn stared.
Then poked her own cheek.
Squish.
She stared harder.
Then slapped herself lightly.
Ow.
Still real.
“…Well.”
She paused.
“…That’s concerning.”
With the seriousness of a woman who had once managed a thirty-million-dollar merger while running on two iced coffees and pure resentment, Evelyn carefully rolled out of bed.
It took approximately three seconds for gravity to remind her she now possessed the body proportions of a decorative dumpling.
She landed face-first on a carpet.
Silence.
Then—
“…I miss being tall.”
She pushed herself upright.
Her legs wobbled.
Her balance was terrible.
Her dignity was dead twice now.
Somehow, she managed to shuffle toward the nearest mirror.
And stopped.
The child staring back at her looked no older than three.
Black curls.
Porcelain skin.
Huge gray-blue eyes.
Tiny lips.
Soft cheeks.
She looked less like a human being and more like an expensive doll rich people bought because therapy was harder.
Evelyn narrowed her eyes.
Mirror-child narrowed hers back.
“…Okay.”
She folded her tiny arms.
“Let’s review.”
She raised one finger.
“Fact number one.”
She raised another.
“I was murdered.”
A third.
“I am now… apparently… preschool-sized.”
A fourth.
“I am either reincarnated…”
She paused.
“…or I’m in the weirdest tax fraud simulation ever created.”
That felt fair.
Before she could continue her crisis meeting—
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The sound was soft.
Precise.
The kind of knock that screamed I know your blood type.
Evelyn turned.
The door opened.
And a man stepped inside.
Tall.
Elegant.
Black tailcoat.
Silver-rimmed glasses.
White gloves.
The kind of face that looked like he probably knew where all the bodies were buried—
and alphabetized them.
He smiled.
Warmly.
Politely.
Terrifyingly.
Then he dropped to one knee.
“Good morning, Miss Evelyn.”
His voice was smooth enough to be bottled and sold.
Evelyn blinked.
Then blinked again.
Okay.
That’s either a butler…
Or an assassin with excellent posture.
The man smiled wider.
“My name is Sebastian Crowe.”
He bowed slightly.
“Welcome home.”
Home.
The word hit harder than she expected.
Something warm stirred in her chest.
Small.
Fragile.
Dangerous.
Evelyn hated that immediately.
She recovered in under two seconds.
“Where,” she asked in her tiny, criminally adorable voice, “exactly is home?”
Sebastian’s eyebrows moved approximately half a millimeter.
Which, judging by his face, probably counted as emotional vulnerability.
“You are in Blackwood Castle, Miss.”
He smiled.
“The ancestral residence of House Blackwood.”
Evelyn processed that.
Then processed it again.
Then nodded slowly.
“Right.”
Of course.
Because apparently dying once wasn’t dramatic enough.
Now she was in a castle.
Owned by a family whose name sounded like they definitely had at least three skeletons in every closet.
Possibly literal ones.
Sebastian extended his arms.
“Shall I carry you downstairs?”
Evelyn stared.
Then looked down at her tiny legs.
Then back at him.
Then down again.
She sighed.
“Unfortunately…”
She raised both arms.
“Capitalism has failed me.”
Sebastian blinked.
“…I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.”
He picked her up.
She hated how comfortable it was.
Warm.
Steady.
Safe.
Her adult brain found this deeply offensive.
Sebastian carried her into the hallway.
And that—
was when things got weird.
Which was saying something.
The corridor stretched endlessly.
Dark wood.
Portraits.
Candles.
Old carpets.
Ancient family wealth practically leaking from the walls.
Evelyn glanced at a painting—
and nearly screamed.
The woman in the portrait blinked.
Evelyn blinked back.
“…Excuse me.”
The portrait smiled.
Evelyn looked away.
“Nope.”
Absolutely not.
Not dealing with haunted oil paintings before breakfast.
She was still processing that—
when—
A voice whispered in her ear.
Mechanical.
Cold.
Impossible.
[Gift Activated.]
Evelyn froze.
Her entire body went rigid.
Sebastian noticed immediately.
“Miss?”
She didn’t answer.
Because suddenly—
Her head exploded with noise.
Whispers.
Hundreds of them.
Thousands.
Men.
Women.
Children.
Laughter.
Sobbing.
Begging.
Prayers.
Confessions.
Secrets.
So many secrets.
She clutched Sebastian’s coat.
Her tiny fingers shook.
What the hell—
Then—
Every voice vanished.
And one sentence appeared in her mind.
Clear.
Sharp.
Merciless.
[Target Detected.]
[Damian Blackwood.]
[Death Countdown: 72:00:00.]
Evelyn stopped breathing.
Sebastian looked down.
“Miss Evelyn?”
She looked up at him.
Her gray-blue eyes suddenly far too old for a three-year-old.
“…Who,” she whispered.
“Is Damian Blackwood?”
Sebastian smiled.
But for the first time—
It didn’t reach his eyes.
“He,” Sebastian said softly—
“Is your father.”
Evelyn’s stomach dropped.
Not because of the answer.
Because the voice returned.
And whispered again.
[Secret Unlocked.]
[Warning.]
[This man… is not your father.]
Evelyn’s pupils shrank.
And at the end of the staircase—
A tall man stood in black.
Broad shoulders.
Sharp jawline.
Gray eyes colder than winter steel.
Power radiated from him so naturally it felt less like presence—
and more like gravity.
Damian Blackwood.
He looked up.
And their eyes met.
For one long—
dangerous—
silent moment.
Then his lips curved.
Not quite a smile.
Not quite a warning.
Something worse.
Something personal.
And he said—
“Well.”
His voice was low enough to make the candles feel nervous.
“My daughter.”
He tilted his head.
“Why are you looking at me…”
“…like you’ve seen me die?”
