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 evening started as others had been of late: the marquis's deep, even voice spinning stories of reluctant admission and stolen caresses as Alexendra rested against her pillows, head cocked, half-attentive, half-sleeping.

He had become used to the softness that stole into her face at these readings — the way she leaned forward into his voice, as if she could see each word in her mind.

It filled him with a strange, fierce heat, one which sometimes caught him by surprise.

Then — a high, shattered cry cut the silence.

For an instant, his heart stopped.

He watched Alexendra's head snap up, her cane thudding to the floor as she struggled to push herself into a sitting position. By the time he could say anything, she was already staggering toward them. Without thinking, he stepped to her side, supporting her with one hand, feeling her fingers momentarily close into his sleeve for support.

They arrived in Charlotte's room almost simultaneously, flinging the door wide.

There, on the bed, lay Charlotte — a shaking tangle of blankets and tears.

His chest contracted in anguish at the sight.

Alexendra had run to her first, shouting her name in a tone he'd never heard so harsh.

When Charlotte flung into her arms, the marquis stood behind, rooted to the spot, his hands halfway up and ineffective.

"I had a bad dream. I was alone. no one could find me. you were gone."

The marquis felt the words bite him like a knife. He saw the little girl hold on to Alexendra, saw the shaking shoulders and felt something long and fragile move inside him.

I said I would protect her. I said I would.

He wanted to extend his hand, to comfort, but his fingers curled uselessly at his sides.

Then Charlotte turned to him, eyes puffy and red but reaching, begging.

"Don't go. Please. can we all stay together? Tonight? Even Biscuit."

The marquis swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. For a moment, he could do nothing more than look at that reaching little hand, so fragile and so courageous.

She trusts me enough to ask. After everything. after all her terrors.

"Of course," Alexendra whispered, fierce and instant.

Back in Alexendra's room, the marquis lingered awkwardly near the bed as Biscuit sprang up and promptly claimed his corner. Charlotte inched into the middle, snatching onto Alexendra's sleeve in an instant.

I don't belong here. This warmth. this closeness.

But then Charlotte extended her hand to him again.

"Charlotte, please," she said so softly he felt his chest crack.

He got up. Slowly, hesitantly, he climbed onto the bed beside them, placing himself at the edge, as though he feared he might shatter this delicate moment.

In the silence that followed, he saw Charlotte's breaths slow, her hold on Alexendra's sleeve relax into sleep. Biscuit snored softly at their feet.

Alexendra leaned her head towards him, her face impassive in the moonlight — but he could feel her thankfulness like a silent beat in the room.

This. this is what I fought to keep. Not legacy, not duty. This warmth, these small fingers, these gentle snores in the dark.

As the breathing of the girl stabilized and Alexendra's shoulders finally unkinked, the marquis released a slow, tremulous breath.

I believed I would live and die among marble halls and icy walls. But here I am. Drawn into this small citadel of warmth, kept standing by a fox cub's grasp and a woman who cannot be broken.

Maybe. this is what home is supposed to feel like.

Tonight, they were not the marquis, the drunken ex-loner, or the frightened little girl. Tonight, they were just a family.

Fox Cub’s Night Terror