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

When the marquis arrived in the garden that afternoon, he did not call out. He did not often, but today his quiet was different — nearly one of respect.

Behind the hedges, he came to a halt.

There they were: Alexendra stretched out on her back among the warm grass, Charlotte curled up beside her like a kitten asleep, and Biscuit stretched out across their legs, snoring quietly.

Charlotte had her small hand over Alexendra's heart, as though sensing every beat, and Alexendra had fingers through Charlotte's hair, softly stroking.

It was a scene for a man who was accustomed to cold halls and formal silence, like entering a painting.

He watched Alexendra laugh — a genuine, belly-deep laugh — as Charlotte parodied a squirrel's scampering dance. She came close to falling over, and Alexendra caught her instinctively, bringing her close.

"Careful, sprout," Alexendra whispered, her tone low and tender.

Charlotte just laughed and buried her forehead against Alex's, whispering some private joke.

The marquis's hand, clutching the hedge, clenched involuntarily. Something hurt in his chest — something he had believed was long dead.

He recalled the early days when Alexendra came. Her fury. Her anger. The never-ending breaking of vases, the sound of curses echoing down every hall.

Yet here, today… she was softer. Still disheveled, still boisterous, but kinder than he had ever thought possible.

Charlotte was the first to see him.

"Papa!" she cried, leaping up and flailing her arms wildly, almost stumbling over Biscuit's wagging tail.

Alexendra sat bolt upright, immediately mortified. She grasped her cane, her cheeks flushing.

The marquis came forward slowly. "You appear. engaged," he said, his tone low but with a flash of warmth.

Alexendra glared, attempting to salvage some of her dignity. "We were… practicing survival skills. Extremely valuable skills."

Charlotte puffed out her cheeks with pride. "She can hear the wind now, Papa! And smell the basil! She even knows the garlic from the mint — mostly."

Alexendra grumbled, "Mostly is a strong word…"

For an instant, the marquis just stood there, staring between the two of them.

Charlotte dashed up to him, grasping his sleeve. "Papa, sit with us! You can learn too!"

He faltered — a lord, schooled in reserve and decorum. But noting her shining eyes and Alexendra's blushing, exasperated smile, he allowed himself to be drawn forward.

Charlotte led him to the grass, and he clumsily sat down.

The three of them sat together, the light of the afternoon catching in Charlotte's hair like golden threads.

Alexendra moved closer, her hand tangling with his for only a moment.

Their gazes didn't connect entirely — Alexendra's still veiled, his still protected — but something traveled between them, something as silent and powerful as the breeze Charlotte had taught Alexendra to listen for.

"Thank you," he found himself saying, his tone barely above a breath.

Alexendra leaned her head to one side, taken aback. "For what?"

He gazed down at Charlotte, who was occupied arranging grass crowns for Biscuit.

"For bringing her laughter back," he said. Then, more softly, "For bringing. life back."

Alexendra froze, her heart thudding in her ears. She wanted to scoff, to bark out a sarcastic reply — but instead, she only gave the tiniest nod.

Above them, Charlotte placed a lopsided crown on Biscuit's head.

"Now you're the king of the garden!" she declared.

Alexendra burst out laughing. The marquis — startled — found himself chuckling too.

In that sun-drenched instant, amidst twisted crowns and fingers redolent of garlic, something fragile yet indomitable started to take shape between them.

A new kind of family, stitched together not through blood — but through choice, and the unseen bonds of laughter, patience, and small hands grasping in the darkness.

Eyes That See the Heart