Chapter 1

The air in the Duke’s library was thick with the scent of old money and neglect. At 24, Zoe felt less like a debutante and more like a puzzle with several crucial pieces missing. The doctors called it amnesia, but to her, it just felt like a hollow space where her heart used to be.

"I need something to read that isn't a textbook or a history of the Empire," she grumbled, her fingers skimming the dusty shelves.

That was when she saw it. A slim, leather-bound volume tucked away as if it were hiding. She pulled it out, and her breath hitched. On the front, in elegant, hand-lettered gold, were two names: Zoe & Chris.

"Wait," she whispered. "That's my name. Is this some kind of fanfiction?"

She flipped to the first page. It wasn't a story—at least, not yet. There was only a single, handwritten line:

“To the love of my life.” — Chris.

Zoe’s chest tightened. A sharp, electric pang of something shot through her. She hadn't even read a single sentence of the plot, but the moment her thumb brushed that name—Chris—

"Chris?" The name felt like a spark of static electricity against her tongue. "And same name as the protagonist? How cliché."

As she opened the first page, the ink seemed to shimmer. Before she could read a single word, the floor beneath her boots vanished. The smell of dust was replaced by the overwhelming, dizzying scent of blooming jasmine and fresh-cut grass.

When the spinning stopped, the first thing Zoe noticed was the sun. It was too bright. The second thing she noticed was that she was sitting in a bed of jasmine, and her legs were... significantly shorter.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," she squeaked. Her voice was high, like a flute.

She looked down. Gone were the structured silks of an eighteen-year-old lady. In their place was a ruffled, pale-blue tea dress that made her look like a very expensive doll. Her hands were small, unblemished, and slightly sticky with what smelled like peach jam.

"I’ve been transmigrated," she whispered, her eyes widening. "I found a mysterious book, I touched a name, and now I’m... what, eleven? This is exactly like that one web-novel where the girl becomes a side character and has to avoid getting executed by the tyrant."

She stood up, wobbling on her shorter legs. She looked around the lavish garden. "Okay, so the protagonist’s name is Zoe. Total coincidence. I’m just an 24 year old in an eleven-year-old’s body, trapped in a story I haven't even read. I don't even know the plot!

Zoe spun around so fast she nearly tripped over her own petticoats.

Sitting on a stone bench under a weeping willow was a boy. He looked about thirteen, with dark, messy hair and eyes that seemed to hold a secret he wasn't ready to share. He had a fountain pen behind his ear and was currently scrawling furiously into a notebook, while a thick book titled Human Anatomy & Physiology sat open beside him.

Zoe froze. Her heart did a strange, violent somersault in her chest.

Why does looking at him feel like I’ve just been punched in the soul?

"Do I know you?" she asked, trying to maintain the dignity of a "novel heroine."

The boy paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He looked at her, and for a split second, his expression was so tender it hurt. Then, he smirked, the shadow of a dimple appearing in his cheek.

"We’ve lived next door to each other for three months, you’ve stolen three of my apples, and you accidentally dyed my cat purple last Tuesday," he said, closing his notebook. "So, I’d hope you know me, Zoe."

"Right. Of course. The neighbor," Zoe stammered, her face heating up. He’s the Male Lead. He has to be.

sensing her confusion. He stood up and walked toward her.

As he approached, a sudden flash of an image flickered in Zoe’s mind: a hand, much larger than this one, holding hers in the dark. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving behind a hollow, aching yearning that made her eyes water.

"Are you crying?" Chris asked, his playful tone immediately dropping into something sharper—genuine worry.

"No!" Zoe snapped, wiping her eyes aggressively. "It’s just... the pollen in this novel is very aggressive."

Chris blinked. "Novel? What are you talking about?"

"Nothing!" she squeaked. "So, Chris. What are you writing? A manifesto?"

He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray piece of grass off her cheek. His touch was light, but to Zoe, it felt like a brand.

"You'd be surprised," he whispered.

"You’ve been reading too many of those romance stories I leave for you. Come on. I finished the poem."

"Poem?"

"The one for the beginning of my new book," he said, reaching out and gently taking her hand.

His skin was warm. The moment their fingers locked, a flash of an image sparked in Zoe’s mind: a hospital room, the smell of rain, and a hand losing its grip.

She gasped, pulling back slightly.

"Zoe?" Chris’s expression was intense—far too intense for a thirteen-year-old. For a second, the boyishness vanished, and she saw a man with a world of sorrow in his eyes. But then he blinked, and he was just a teenager again. "If you don't want to hear it, we can go play the piano instead. I practiced the duet you liked."

Zoe looked at his hand, then up at his face. I don't know who he is in this 'novel,' she thought, her heart still aching with that inexplicable longing. But I feel like if I let go of his hand, I’ll lose something I can never get back.

"No," she said softly, her voice steadier. "I want to hear it. Lead the way... Chris."

As they walked toward the manor, Zoe told herself this was all just a dream—a strange, vivid "isekai" adventure. She didn't notice the way Chris looked at her when she wasn't looking: with the desperate, hungry gaze of a man who was running out of time, and who loved her enough to rewrite the very stars if it meant seeing her smile one last time.

The tragedy hadn't started yet. This was only the beginning of the end.

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