faeni

I did nothing with my entire life. Literally nothing. Then I died — not saving a cat from a tree heroically, not even struck by Truck-kun — but of a heart attack caused by a BL manga confession scene. Pitiful? Perhaps.

When I begged for a second chance, the gods listened. Or at least, they jeered at me. Instead of returning as a mighty sorcerer or a spoiled heiress, I found myself as a young woman with awful vision in some obscure nobleman's manor house.

My eyesight is so poor I can hardly recognize faces. I trip, blink, and consistently confuse people with chairs (and vice versa). But here's the kicker: I've been reborn as the young stepmother of a future villainess — a child who will grow up to be the "evil empress" in a bestselling romance novel that I used to detest.

And so, with only my half-working eyes, shreds of memory, and sheer obstinacy, I'm going to do something — anything — other than waste this life. Whether that is steering my evil stepdaughter, making it through treacherous noble schemes, or just learning how to walk straight without crashing into a wall.

I've got my chance now. And this time, I won't let it slide through my fuzzy fingers.

The Blind Stepmother Of The Villainess

The morning had begun with snickers and sunny schemes.

Charlotte had been whispering clandestine plans to Biscuit all morning, her eyes glinting with mischief barely suppressed. Alexendra, attuned to potential trouble, had warned her with augmented vegetable peeling work if she attempted anything too reckless.

But Charlotte, always the feisty sprout, merely nodded gravely… and went right ahead and did the opposite.

She started with a "grand obstacle course" she'd created in the garden — ropes strung between hedges, concealed buckets of water, and dropped herbs intended to confuse even the most discerning nose (or cane).

Alexendra was at first amused. "If you wish to train me, begin with showing me how not to break a toe on furniture, you menace."

Charlotte laughed. "This is advanced training! You'll be unstoppable!"

Charlotte went first, jumping and crawling, shouting directions that Biscuit barked along to wholeheartedly.

When Alexendra's turn came, she hesitated, but Charlotte's cheerful laughter urged her on.

She made a cautious step forward, cane sweeping. Another step. And another.

Alexendra's foot caught, and she sprawled forward. She crashed over a water pail, slid on wet herbs, and finally fell with a sickening thud.

A stabbing pain went up her arm and along her ribs. Her breath was cut off in her throat.

Charlotte's shriek echoed through the garden. She scrabbled over to her side, her tiny hands trembling as she attempted to pick up Alexendra's head.

Alexendra flinched, each nerve flaming with agony. "I—ahh—Charlotte, cease—"

Biscuit whimpered at their side, pacing them nervously.

The marquis appeared a moment later, his face white as death.

He scooped Alexendra up gently, Charlotte weeping into his sleeve.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," Charlotte chanted like a broken spell, her tears dripping onto Alexendra's sleeve.

Alexendra tried to hush her, but the pain blurred her words into gasps.

Inside, a physician was called. Charlotte stood in a corner, eyes wide and wild with guilt.

She watched as they cleaned and wrapped Alexendra's arm, pressed cool cloths to her bruised ribs, and whispered worried words.

Each wince Alexendra uttered seemed like a knife in Charlotte's small chest.

When it was done, Alexendra opened her eyes, perspiration beading her hair.

"Come here," she croaked, her voice strained but commanding.

Charlotte moved a little closer, shaking.

Alexendra extended her good hand — and instead of rebuking, she touched her palm softly to Charlotte's cheek.

"Listen to me," she breathed. "I said live wildly. but never forget to look where your joy falls."

Charlotte wept harder, her little fingers locked around Alexendra's wrist as if she'd vanish.

"I'm sorry," she gurgled. "I didn't mean it— I never meant to hurt you."

"I know," Alexendra smiled weakly. "But promise me… next time, you'll lead me, not deceive me."

Charlotte nodded wildly, her face hidden in Alexendra's shoulder, hiccuping through the tears in the room.

The marquis was standing in the doorway, his gaze on them. Something within him had shifted — a combination of relief, anger, and a swift, protective heat that surprised him too.

He left them to themselves then, closing the door quietly behind him.

That evening, Charlotte would not let Alexendra out of her sight.

She dozed, tucked in against her, her tiny fingers holding lightly to the bandages as if protecting them.

Alexendra, wincing with pain, smiled softly. She combed her fingers through Charlotte's hair and spoke into the stillness:

"Little sprout… sometimes your mischief is a storm. But storms can bring new growth too."

Charlotte's hand jerked in her sleep — as if seeking forgiveness already given.

The Thorn and the Fall