Memories come flooding back.

Most of them are from my previous life.

The days following my mother’s departure. I see myself gradually falling apart.
Breaking things, throwing tantrums. Bullying the servants relentlessly.

The wretched days when I’d scream over trivial matters.
The version of me that couldn’t accept anyone’s concern or even my own feelings, seeing only malice in everything.

As I deteriorated day by day, someone was watching me from afar.

"Father?"

I was crouched down, drying out like a withering plant, unsure if I was sobbing or angry. From a distance, my father stood watching.
When was this memory from? I couldn’t tell. It was hard even to call it my memory.