I open my eyes to pink walls. Not the white ceiling of the hospital room where I died. Not the darkness I expected after thirty-two years of disappointing everyone. Pink walls with glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck up there when I was eleven. My hands are small. Smooth. No IV bruises, no scars from the car accident that finally made my parents cry—not for me, but for Maya, who'd been in the passenger seat and walked away with a scratch. I sit up. My body moves too easily. No pain in my ribs. No weight in my chest. The calendar on my desk says March 15th. The year makes my throat close. I'm thirteen again. And today is the day they bring her home. I know this morning by heart. In exactly twelve minutes, my mother will call me down for breakfast. My father will be reading the newspaper, and there will be a fourth plate on the table. A plate for Maya—the orphan my parents chose at the adoption agency last month, the girl who will become their real daughter while I fade into the background of my own life. I lived this day before. I lived the nineteen years that followed. I watched my parents fall in love with her smile, her gratitude, her perfect eagerness to please. I competed for scraps of attention. I tried harder, achieved more, needed less. It never mattered. At thirty-two, I died alone in a hospital bed while my parents sat vigil in Maya's room three floors up. Now I'm here again. Standing in my childhood bedroom in a body that doesn't remember betrayal yet. My door opens without a knock. My mother—younger than I remember, her hair still black—smiles in that distracted way she perfected over the years. "Lily, come down for breakfast. We have a surprise." Not a surprise. A replacement. But this time, I don't ask what it is. I don't bounce down the stairs with hope. I follow her down slowly, already knowing exactly how this day ends.