Rewriting My Third Life Novels & Stories

His beautiful wife, who had loved him wholeheartedly, his son, who died in the hands of his mistress, and his freedom. Sitting alone in his cell, he was left with nothing but remorse. He desperately wished he could press a rewind button, craving a second chance at the life he had so carelessly thrown away.

As the news broadcast reported a random serial killing near my residential complex, I knew—I had been reborn once again. In my first life, my husband insisted on going out in the middle of a snowstorm to buy weapons for self-defense. I locked every door and window, waiting at home, anxiety clawing at my chest. I never imagined the killer could pick locks. Before I could even react, a blade plunged into me, and I died on the couch. In my second life, I didn't hesitate. I hid in a concealed storage room, holding my breath. But the door was still pulled open. A man wearing a rabbit mask stared straight at me. "Found you," he said. In my third life, I ran to the police station. I rushed ins

The only question left was who got to tell it, and whether I would let someone else rewrite my life for the second time in sixteen years. The first time I was twenty, scared, and too slow to fight back. I’m thirty-one now, and I’m not that girl anymore, I am going to fight for what I worked so hard for, I don't care what it takes.

"Gabriel, what did you do? What's all this?" All this was a new toddler bed contraption for triplets, complete with bedding and all the necessary amenities. There were clothes and coats and shoes and everything I could think of. Maybe I'd gone a bit overboard, but who can blame me? There is so much to make up for so much I want to do. This felt like the beginning of a new life, a new chapter, which was fitting as the last one was coming to an end.

At the top of the high green hill lay my parents, and beside them was me. And beside me, there was a tiny grave. That was my tiny child's home. He hadn't had the chance to come to this world. Winston carefully hid in the corners the entire time, watching the others put me into my grave. After three years, I was finally able to leave this place where I experienced love and hate. Winston cried with tears all over his face. "Aryanna, I'm sorry..." I felt my soul dissipating a little bit. The last image before I could remember was Winston signing the agreement to donate his remains.

As I signed the divorce papers for the third time, I moved through the familiar steps with practiced ease. I could have done it in my sleep, having been through the drill three times already. Henry Johnson clutched the divorce certificate, his eyes darting to his watch, his brow creased with impatience. "Go on ahead, I'll catch a cab back," I offered before he could say a word. A flicker of surprise crossed Henry's face, but it was quickly replaced by a look of regret as he spoke, "Sorry, Melanie just landed, I..."

Nina said before bursting in laughter. "I knew that you knew," Cela said to Hyun. "But it's over." Hyun still couldn't say anything. "I kept forgetting about the fiancé. I'm so bad," Cela continued. "What are you going to do now?" Hyun asked to keep the conversation going. Cela breathed deeply. "What else? Just do what I am supposed to do," she answered. "You mean you're starting the third book?" Hyun asked without thinking carefully. He wanted to take back what he asked.

Conrad was sick and calling my name? He wasn't so deeply attached to me. And last time, he mentioned a dream where he married me. Could it be... It was strange enough that I had a second chance at life. But then again, anything was possible. But what if he remembered his past life? What should my third move be? Back then, I had boasted to Horace that if he worked with me, in just three moves, I would help him take back what rightfully belonged to him. In my past life, things had ended horribly for me, and I would never let Conrad peacefully become the heir and control Reese Enterprise.

Better to stay dumb than to risk losing it all again to the corona of fleeting glimpses. Finally, I stood and pulled my backpack from the overhead rack, removing my notebook from the front pocket. While the others leaned in to see what I was up to, I opened the pad to a blank page and wrote the words Elephant Man at the top. It was crude, but it was a way of staying concentrated on the specific point. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s give him the full treatment. Him. His third twin. His evolução.” ***