Rebirth Snatching Back My Stolen Luck novel Chapter 39

Yet… I frowned.

Something about that didn’t feel right.

I vaguely remembered how deeply personal the things I wrote in that journal were: my rawest, realest thoughts.

Maybe even a little dark.

Definitely not something I’d want anyone to stumble upon.

Not even Claire, whom I’d trusted the most back then.

And especially not my mother, who saw my privacy as non–existent.

So, there was no way I would’ve left it somewhere obvious or easily found.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check. I walked over and searched through the drawers, one after another.

As expected–nothing.

WAn

Sitting down, I placed the tablet on the table and buried my fingers deep into my hair, a deep frown etched across my brow.

Why do I feel like… something’s wrong with my memories?

Sure, I’d been reborn. That alone was enough to cause mental overload, with memories of two lives crammed into one brain.

Confusion was expected.

But I felt like it shouldn’t be like this.

Not being able to recall where I’d hidden Not being able to recall where I’d hidden

Not to have a single idea.

mething that important to me.

And it wasn’t the first time. There had been other moments like this.

When I encountered something vaguely familiar and tried to grasp the memory attached to it, only to find a void.

Like something was blocking me from recollection.

“May.” I called out silently. If anyone could explain this, it was her.

[Yes, host. How can I help you today?]

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“I keep getting this feeling that something’s wrong with my memories. Is it an effect of the rebirth?”

Silence.

“May?” I called again when she didn’t respond.

[I’m here, host. But unfortunately, I can’t provide an answer to your question. It’s against the rules.]

And just like that, she went quiet, her voice gone from my mind.

I began tapping my fingers against the desk surface.

May hadn’t given me a direct answer… but her silence, and those words, told me all I needed to know.

There was something wrong with my memories.

And judging from her refusal to say more, it was up to me to figure out what it was.

But for now, I’d have to set that aside since I had no leads, and focus on the matter at hand.

That being said…

Where would I have hidden the diary?

Somewhere discreet, yet easy to access.

Somewhere no one would think to search.

My gaze swept across the room again, pausing at the king–sized bed. The pillows and plush toys were neatly arranged on it.

A feeling tugged at me.

Subtle. Persistent.

Like a muscle memory. Like a dusty, forgotten memory.

Before I realized it, I was already standing beside the bed, running my fingers along the soft, upholstered headboard.

The sense of familiarity deepened, like I’d done this a thousand times before.

Urgency surged through me.

I brushed the pillows aside, climbed onto the bed, and knelt in front of the headboard. Then, my fingers continued tracing along the edge–until they caught something.

A faint groove in the lower corner.

My heart pounded as I pressed into it.

O

Following a soft click, the panel shifted slightly, revealing a narrow, hidden compartment.

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My breath caught in my throat.

With trembling hands, I reached inside, and pulled out a plain, black, leather–bound journal.

Found it.

The moment I touched it, a wave of forgotten memories hit me.

Me, curled up in bed at night, writing down every frustration, every desperate emotion I couldn’t

This journal had been my most intimate companion.

Gently unwrapping it, I flipped to the first page.

say

aloud.

In black ink, written in childish, slanted handwriting were the words:

Freedom is what I seek. In the past. In the present. And in the future.

I wonder if I’ll ever get there?

I smiled softly, a bittersweet ache spreading in my chest.

There was no doubt–I had written this.

Too bad…

Tears slid silently down my cheeks.

that the girl who wrote this never got to taste that freedom before she died.

Now it was up to me to achieve it–for both of us.

I turned to the next page.

Dear diary,

I’m starting to no longer be able to stand anything pink.

Maybe it’s because Mom just won’t stop filling my room with everything in that color. Even my classmates at school are starting to call me “Pink Princess” or “Barbie.”

I really, really hate the nickname.

But I can’t bring myself to tell them to stop because… they’re not wrong.

I am a pink princess. Dressed in nothing but pink, every single day.

I tried telling Mom that I want other colors. I wouldn’t even mind black or white–just something else.

But she brushed me off. Said it wasn’t a big deal. She even called the kids bullies, as if I don’t know that already.

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Chapter 40