The Weight of Unfinished Dreams

Chapter 1

Evelyn Fairborne thought graduation was going to be a celebration, but instead, it had become a stress-fest. The universe had other plans for her. Just as she was interning at a friend’s uncle's small publishing house, she was also sweating it out at job fairs, clutching her resume like a lifeline. With the end of June around the corner, the clock was ticking on her dormitory lease that would kick her out, and the reality of adult life was closing in fast.

The signs had been posted long ago: All upperclassmen must vacate their dorms by the end of the month.

The rents around campus were outrageous—starting at about five hundred bucks for a tiny studio without a kitchen or bathroom. Just a bed squeezed next to a desk. The kind of place where you couldn’t even turn around without knocking something over.

“Just come home if it gets tough,” her parents would say every time they called. “We’ll always have food on the table.”

Evelyn would simply nod, repeating, “I know, I know,” before heading back to the job market the next day, drenched in sweat and disappointment.

With just three days left to find a place to live, she finally landed a job as a graphic designer at a mid-sized company called The Herald Press. Just when she thought her luck was finally turning around, fate threw her a curveball. After joyfully telling her family the good news, and snagging two discounted outfits to celebrate, she was about to step into her dorm for the last time when disaster struck—a flowerpot fell from above, knocking her clean out.

When Evelyn came to, she found herself sprawled in a surreal new reality—the Everlight Kingdom.

In her college days, she’d entertained thoughts about what it would be like to leap into another world—her roommate Isabella always fantasized about becoming an agricultural mogul with her kin, harvesting crops from sun-drenched fields. Lydia, ever the romantic, would muse about surrounding herself with handsome suitors, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

But here she was, no longer Evelyn Fairborne, but rather a lowly side character in this bizarre kingdom. She was now a “secondary daughter” of the Left Chancellor's household, and the expectations were every bit as stifling as any upper-class upbringing. By the age of three, she was already reading; by six, she was embroidering. By thirteen, she'd dabbled in music, art, poetry, and everything in between—she wasn’t a master, but she sure as hell knew her stuff.

Then came the annual selection for the royal court. And right after that? An assassination mission targeting the current emperor.

If it weren't for the cursed mission she was bound to, Evelyn could easily picture herself making a run for it on a dark and stormy night. Trouble was, she had an annoying system that had latched onto her the moment she crossed into this world. It dictated her life right down to her daily choices, leaving her handcuffed to a ridiculous deadline: complete an assassination by her sixteenth birthday, or face soul deletion.

Either option led to death—royal duty or a stealthy escape, both were marked for the grave, though the first would let her keep her memories and return to her family, while the second would erase everything she'd ever known.

With more than a hint of desperation, Evelyn decided to endure the next sixteen years, biding her time until she could fulfill this crazy mission and slip away. She just wanted to see her parents once more and escape the iron-clad chains of this life.

But of course, fate had a twisted sense of humor. The emperor, quite insane in his own right, had spent his life in a toxic bath, leaving him immune to poisoning. It turned out, nothing would kill him; every attempt at assassination was utterly futile, yet he seemed intent on dragging her down into his madness.

What bothered her most? The system had only mandated an “assassination,” not a “successful” one. Just stab and go—how hard could it be? But at the worst possible moment, as she poised over the screen to finalize her plan, the loony emperor flipped onto her and messed up her concentration.

One clumsy slip of the finger, and she woke up back in modern civilization. Initially, she figured she’d just swapped bodies, but as time passed, she realized she had jumped through time itself.

Despite being back in a version of her world, it wasn’t the life she remembered. This was a shift of nearly four hundred years, uprooting her entirely from her family.

Thank goodness Evelyn had some resilience. After sixteen relentless years of navigating palace intrigues, this new reality felt like just another bump in the road.

The real struggle came from her living situation. Her new family? They lived cramped in a small worker's apartment with four people stuffed into a 29-square-meter space. No land, no means of support. One job loss meant everyone was stuck grasping at straws.

And her grandparents? They were hard workers without connections, resigned to grinding their lives away, too timid to claim their rights.

Evelyn looked at it all and just sighed, steeling herself for what lay ahead. Life had thrown her into the deep end, but she had always been a swimmer.

Chapter 2

Evelyn Fairborne had hardly settled into her new life when her parents, like clockwork, found themselves out of work. The furniture factory had deemed them “uneducated”—an absurdity if there ever was one. Countless employees at the factory lacked formal education, but none had the experience or tenure of her parents. It was classic, really: pick the softest fruit off the tree.

It didn't matter that her folks were a bit rough around the edges. They were hard workers. The night they received the layoff notice, her mother had shed a few tears, but by sunrise, they were both up and at it—her mother boiling some rice, her father reading the classifieds in search of a job.

Her father landed a gig at Harbor Wharf, hauling cargo for a day’s pay. Quick cash, sure, but it also meant tomorrow might be empty. Her mother took a position at a nearby dry cleaner, ironically named “Fresh Clean.” It was the epitome of false advertising—most garments ended up in her mother’s hands. For every piece she washed, she earned a dollar; a grueling day might net her thirty bucks if she was lucky, and that was without benefits. Her hands were red and cracked, pleading for relief, but that was just the early autumn chill. Winter would bring its own issues.

The money her parents earned barely covered the essentials for their family of four, leaving just enough to pay the rent and utilities—around four or five hundred a month. The factory’s housing was gone; they’d been evicted from the employee dorms. They settled in a cramped two-bedroom apartment in Oldstead Quarter, mere blocks from Evelyn's school. It was less than three hundred square feet. Her parents shared one room, while her older brother Rowan and younger sister split the other, separated only by a flimsy wardrobe.

With two growing kids in school, finances were strained. Rowan, who was supposed to be in his third year of junior high, decided to quit and start a garage sale business on the weekends, hoping to contribute something, anything, to the family’s dwindling income.

In this precarious setup, each family member fought for survival day by day, with even the slightest illness feeling like a luxury they couldn't afford.

Evelyn had never known hardship like this in her past lives. As a noble’s daughter, there wasn’t a single day in sixteen years when she didn’t eat lavishly. Her parents had burdened her with family responsibilities, but they never let her worry about her next meal. In her previous life as a village girl, her father was the chief, and her mother the community leader. They lived comfortably. Her brothers held respectable positions in government, and her sisters-in-law tended a thriving home garden. She had a spacious room in their newly built two-story house. If she hadn’t been so hell-bent on making it to the city after college, she wouldn’t be here, struggling in this endless cycle of hardship.

Yet, as much as she lamented her situation, the moment Evelyn recognized the reality of her circumstances, she rolled up her sleeves and made a plan.

She was determined to pull her family out of this financial mess.

Next, she aimed to fulfill her long-held dream of attending a prestigious university, not to settle for a community college degree. She wanted to study something she was passionate about, rather than scraping by to meet some arbitrary score. If fate allowed, she'd bulldoze her way through to a PhD and earn the respect of her peers as a scholar.

And, of course, she envisioned landing the ideal job—one where employers chased her down instead of her hunting for openings in grimy career fairs.

She couldn’t shake the memories of her previous job searches, marred by frustration and rejection. It stuck with her.

But right now, the priority was clear: improve their dire situation.

“Honestly, it’s not impossible,” a familiar voice echoed in her head. Crown Regent, the system that had somehow plucked her from her past life, nudged at her consciousness like a persistent itch.

On her first day in this new body, she'd wanted to lash out at it for being such a clunky, outdated piece of technology. If only the controls worked with thought, she could’ve avoided this whole mess in the first place.

But two months had flown by, and Evelyn’s thirteenth birthday had come and gone. She was now officially a first-year middle schooler, filled with ambitions, and her initial resentments had transformed into a burning desire to elevate her family’s fortunes.

Taking Crown Regent’s suggestion to heart, she decided it was time to put a plan into action.

Chapter 3

In the Everlight Kingdom, there were only two places where Rowan Fairborne set up shop at the street corner: one was at the tail end of Oldhaven Alley.

Oldhaven Alley was lined with antique shops, with a few others selling vintage crafts and retro clothing. It was a hangout for “vintage seekers,” folks on the lookout for hidden gems, riffling through stalls in hopes of scoring some interesting finds for a few bucks.

The other spot was Cloudspire Street in the South District, near Crown Plaza and a bus transfer station. This place buzzed with foot traffic, and on a lucky day, one could rake in two or three hundred dollars.

But luck was fickle. There were days when the city patrol came chasing after street vendors, and getting caught meant confiscated goods and hefty fines.

So, when the numbers were crunched, Rowan could make a solid two to three thousand dollars a month, and not just him—his whole family would smile at the numbers.

Evelyn Fairborne knew exactly where to find Rowan. His stall was the third one from the end on Oldhaven Alley.

Rowan paid the rent by the day here, which meant he didn’t have to worry about patrols ruining his setup. The rent was cheap—just two dollars a day—but the business was slow. He could sit on his little stool for hours and not see a single customer.

When Evelyn found him, he was slumped over, arms crossed on his knees, deep in a nap.

She didn’t rush to wake him. Instead, she squatted down in front of his stall, scanning the jumble of old knickknacks he had for sale, looking for any treasure that might echo what the Crown Regent had mentioned.

“...Nothing,” she murmured to herself. There was no way any real treasure was just waiting to be grabbed in a place like this.

“That doesn’t mean the stall next door doesn’t have something.”

What did that mean?

Evelyn glanced left and right at the neighboring stalls. The one to her left sold old paintings, while the one on her right looked just as haphazard as Rowan’s.

“Didn’t you see? The stall on your left has a painting titled ‘Snowy Plum Blossoms on Silken Sheet’—one of yours from when you were practicing at home. Can’t believe it ended up at a flea market…”

Evelyn made her way over to the painting stall, her emotions a tangled mess.

The vendor noticed her, grinning widely. “Well, hey there! If you see something you like, let me know. I can give you a discount, fair price, I promise!”

She picked up the ‘Snowy Plum Blossoms’ painting, its silken canvas slightly yellowed but still pretty intact. In the corner, a faded crimson stamp read: “Memoirs from Creek Scholar.” It was her seal from her past life, one she had engraved when missing home—a wave of nostalgia welled up in her, nearly bringing her to tears. She turned to the vendor, “How much for this painting?”

“Oh, it’s an old piece,” the vendor feigned reluctance. “Even if it didn’t originate from the Everlight era, it holds value.”

Seeing Evelyn’s expression remain steady, he added with mock heartache, “But since you caught my eye, I can let it go for thirty bucks. I wouldn’t sell it this low to anyone else.”

Evelyn felt a flush of embarrassment.

That painting she had once valued so highly could now be nabbed for a mere thirty bucks, about the same as discarded sandwich scraps. How disheartening! Back then, she had been full of confidence in her work. Painting had always been her strongest skill.

“What’s the big deal? The vendor has zero eye for talent. If he knew craftsmanship, he wouldn’t be stuck at this dingy stall.”

True enough. Evelyn brushed the bitter feelings aside, counted out thirty dollars from her dwindling savings, and handed it over to the vendor in exchange for the painting.

“Listen, on the eighteenth of next month, there’s going to be an antique and painting exchange at the end of this alley. You should bring that painting; it could yield some interesting opportunities,” said the Crown Regent as she carefully rolled the artwork.

“Your intel is impressive,” she replied, eyes wide with surprise.

“Don’t you ever read the signs along the way? There are at least ten posted from the entrance to the back—each as big as your head.”

Evelyn turned her head and indeed found that the signs were everywhere.

She chuckled softly; she just wanted to find a way to make quick cash.

“There’s still another way to earn money,” suggested the Crown Regent.

Evelyn tilted her head, eager to listen.

“Isn’t this age into all sorts of hobby classes? Why not apply for a teaching gig? You could teach chess, piano, calligraphy, or painting. There’s no way you wouldn’t succeed. Well, except—”

He trailed off, realizing the flaw in his reasoning.

Evelyn smirked at her predicament. Here she was, a middle-school girl, trying to pull off that kind of talent without arousing suspicion. If word got out, she’d face her family’s scrutiny. After all, how would they react to their mediocre daughter suddenly pulling off such skills?

Yet, saving up some money to take classes and eventually show off her art in a more substantial way was a good plan.

But it boiled down to money, and there wasn’t much left in her pocket. Just a meager ten bucks was all she had left—barely enough for breakfast for the next month. She sighed.

“Evelyn… what are you doing here?” Rowan muttered, waking up and rubbing his sleep-filled eyes, disbelief washing over his expression.

Honestly, he hadn’t spoken to her in ages. Unless their parents were asking him to talk to her, he’d been ignoring her. It wasn’t that they had some deep-seated feud; rather, his younger sister openly disapproved of his junk-selling gig, claiming it was embarrassing. Everyone else was in school—serious and polished—while he dragged around a bulging bag selling junk.

Their last fight had stemmed from a day out when she had seen him working his spot on Cloudspire, and without a thought, she pretended not to know him, steering her classmate away. That had left him so hurt he didn't want to speak to her since. Seeing her now was their first encounter outside the house since the Cold War began.

“I finished my homework and got bored, so I thought I’d take a stroll. Is there anything you want me to help with?”

At that, Rowan switched to a bewildered state, hesitating for a moment before he blurted, “Wait... you’re not running low on cash, are you?”

“…”

Evelyn didn’t know how to respond.

“Hey, your brother’s not going to let you live down being a poster kid for how not to spend money.”

Probably just used to it, she mused.

“Hey, so this is your sister?” the vendor from the painting stall chimed in, clearly reveling in their family drama. “Nobody told me that! I’d have given her a discount earlier.”

Rowan couldn’t help himself. “You don’t really look much alike. I take after Dad, and she takes after Mom,” he said with some annoyance, then focused on a few words that had caught his ear. “Uncle Marcus Blackthorn, what do you mean? She bought something from your stall?”

“Just the plum blossom piece. Seems like she wanted it, and I didn’t charge her a dime over thirty bucks.”

“How much did you charge her?,” he looked quizzically at Evelyn now holding the painting, then back at William Blackthorn.

“Thirty bucks. Not even a cent more or less. Exactly what I told you,” William replied nervously, worried Rowan would demand a return.

Evelyn nodded vigorously. “That’s right, I liked it. Just thirty bucks—no harm in it.”

“What do you mean no harm? You know your breakfast money doesn’t even get you that far, right? Today’s only the third of the month; how do you expect to survive half a month starving?”

Their parents were already gone early morning; breakfast was usually leftover rice turned into plain porridge with some salted veggies. Rowan, out all night at his stall, often crashed until noon and then combined breakfast and lunch for a few bucks saved.

Evelyn usually bought a couple of mini buns or a few pastries on her way to school. Spending thirty bucks now meant she’d end up starving for many more days.

“Here, take this.” Rowan dug into his pocket, retrieving two twenty-dollar bills and stuffing them into her hands.

“No, that’s too much,” Evelyn protested, her cheeks reddening. How could she accept money when she hadn’t contributed a dime to the household yet?

“Just take it, sis. Don’t waste it. If you love that painting, hang it up at home.”

At that moment, all the awkwardness and resentment between them evaporated.

Rowan wasn’t one to keep score; he would never have held on to his hurt if she hadn’t reacted so sadly.

“Listen, you two, you’re siblings, so why bother with squabbling over thirty bucks?” William chuckled, ready to tease further when a sudden uproar broke out from the direction of the alley’s entrance. Voices mingled with shouts of “It’s going to end in bloodshed!”

Chapter 4

"What a mess this is," William Blackthorn muttered, rolling up his fabric stall and tying off the bag. He slung it over his shoulder and turned to the two siblings. "Well, since business is dead, let’s go check out the crowd." With that, he jogged toward the growing throng gathering at the alley's entrance.

Rowan Fairborne hesitated. With his sister Evelyn by his side, he preferred their quiet little corner, chatting and waiting for potential customers, rather than pushing into a mob of strangers.

However, the peaceful moment didn’t last long. The ruckus at the mouth of the alley grew louder, and curiosity pulled in more bodies. With a resigned sigh, Rowan decided to pack up the stall. No point in hanging around. They could grab an early dinner and then set up a night stall over on Cloudspire Street. If luck was on their side, they might turn the day’s shutout into a couple of hours of solid sales.

Evelyn rolled up the fabric with him, listening as he shared his plan for the evening.

Suddenly, a wild-eyed middle-aged man burst forth from the crowd, brandishing a gleaming knife and shouting obscenities. "You lowlives! Chasing after scraps while you pretend to be something! I’m gonna stab your ridiculous sign and show you what’s what!"

The crowd, originally drawn by curiosity, was now in panic, darting back toward the alley’s depths. Rowan barely had time to pull Evelyn behind him as the tide of bodies crashed in. There was no escaping the crowd; they were stuck.

"Stay close," Rowan urged, positioning himself to shield her from the chaos.

"Easier said than done," Evelyn responded, looking around with an uneasy smile. She couldn’t help but feel a tingle of excitement. It had been sixteen years since she’d felt this free, able to witness life unfolding all around her. Memories of freedom flickered to life, like carefree days spent wandering the streets with friends, arms linked and laughter echoing in the air.

Lost in thought, she barely noticed the escalating situation until the enraged man stormed up to the Oldhaven Alley’s fabled Embroiderer's Hall, demanding to see Cedric Stormshield.

"Come on, old Zhao," shouted someone in the crowd, trying to defuse the situation. "You don’t need to wave that knife around. Let’s just talk this out."

"Talk? Ha! I’m Edward Hawthorne! My life’s in ruins, and I’ve lost everything—wife, kids, you name it! What’s there to be afraid of? I was hoping to restart my life with this one last precious item, but that swindler Henry Dewhurst ruined my embroidered screen! If I’m going down, I want his company to join me!"

“Shut up, Edward! You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. If you had the guts, let’s go to the precinct and hash this out properly.”

Henry Dewhurst, the manager of Embroiderer's Hall, couldn’t hide anymore. He leaned out from the second-floor balcony, his face beet-red. "You want to talk? It was your damn screen that was falling apart! If you could have fixed it with modern methods, you wouldn’t be banging on my door. I did my best for you! I even checked with the Kingston Embroidery Guild, but they didn’t know how to fix your junk. I tried to patch it as best I could—it didn’t work. I offered you compensation, but you want to pretend you’re still in the past!"

“Don’t give me that crap. I bought that screen ten years ago when it was worth next to nothing. Now it could go international! You think I’m an idiot? You’ve got something shady going on if you’re willing to let me scream in the street.”

The two men, one trapped on the balcony and the other standing below, were exchanging flushed insults, drawing giggles and gasps from the onlookers. It was a spectacle for the crowd, which only fueled the fire. Opinions flew—some sided with Dewhurst, others with Hawthorne, each shouting louder than the last.

When the police finally received the frantic calls for help and rolled into the alley, the crowd was a solid wall of bodies, refusing to budge.

The blaring sirens cut through the noise, but the throng was oblivious. Two officers climbed out, waving batons and shouting into a megaphone, desperate to carve out a path through the masses.

"Look! The cops!" someone shouted. With some coaxing, the tightly packed gathering finally began to ease back.

Rowan took a breath and turned to reach for Evelyn, but panic shot through him—the space beside him was empty.

"Evelyn!"

“Uh-oh. Evelyn's missing!” William Blackthorn, now squeezed back in at the alley’s rear, caught on to Rowan's frantic tone and instinctively knew something was off.

“She just... vanished. One moment she was right here, and then—” Rowan smacked his forehead in frustration. “Damn it! I should’ve kept a closer eye!”

William shook his head. “In this madness, calling her name won’t do much good. I’ll stay here; you head to the entrance. She’s likely confused and might’ve headed back home already. She’s not familiar with the alley, so as long as we cover the entrances, we’ll find her.”

“Thanks, Uncle Marcus. I’ll check the front right now!” Rowan took off, heart pounding, determination surging through him as he forced his way into the surging stream of people.

Chapter 5

Rowan Fairborne rushed toward the alley, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder. He was so focused on his mission that he didn’t notice he brushed against someone—a passerby, oblivious to his anxiety. It was, of course, the very person he was desperately searching for: Evelyn Fairborne.

In the chaos of the crowd, Evelyn found herself on her toes, straining to catch a glimpse of Rowan. Unable to make her way through the throng, and keen to avoid stepping on someone’s toes in the process, she ended up trailing behind two officers in uniforms, Sergeant Edmunds—one seasoned, one fresh-faced—as they made their way to Embroiderer's Hall.

She overheard bits about a commotion involving a decorative screen, supposedly a relic from the Everlight era, piquing her curiosity. With the attendants too preoccupied to notice her lurking, Evelyn crouched just outside the entrance, eavesdropping.

The two Sergeants approached the hall, glistening with sweat in their autumn uniforms, frustration etched across their faces. The air was thick with tension as they tried to maintain composure—until they spotted the two disputants within, which immediately dampened their ire.

Being the low man on the totem pole had its downsides, especially when the power players were hanging around the back rooms of Embroiderer's Hall. Warriors like them could stomp down any uprising the officers could muster, and it was clear these cops couldn’t afford to further ruffle feathers, not when the stakes were so high.

Edward Hawthorne was a self-made man, and though he'd fallen from grace recently—having lost everything due to betrayal—he was rumored to have connections that could make life difficult for any officer daring enough to cross him. A public spat could spiral into a mess neither side could afford; both knew it was far better to downplay whatever this incident promised.

The older officer stepped forward, all patience and professionalism, gathering information with practiced ease. When he ascertained that the fuss hinged on a contract and a dispute of goods, he quickly classified it as a minor civil matter—little more than a public disturbance, not even close to a major incident. Still, with Edward waving a knife around, the optics weren’t great.

“Alright, let’s take a breath here,” the older sergeant said, guiding Edward into the hall while maintaining a calm demeanor. “You’re causing a scene. Just sign here, and let's treat this as a misunderstanding. If it escalates, trust me, you won’t like where this road leads, especially if someone ends up hurt.”

But Edward, it turned out, didn’t respond well to threats. “What do you mean, just let it go?” he shot back, his temper flaring. “You think I’m letting this slide? Embroiderer's Hall didn’t just ruin my screen and offer me crumbs in return. Who do you think you’re siding with, Henry Dewhurst? I’m risking it all—someone has to pay for this damage.”

Young Sergeant Edmund had lounged in his chair long enough to have his fill of Edward’s taunts. He jumped up, pointing an accusatory finger. “You want to talk tough, huh? You’d better hope I don’t decide to charge you right now with disorderly conduct.”

Edward smirked, eyes glinting with derision. “Oh, I’m so scared.” He thumped the tabletop to emphasize his bravado. Even without his knife—with the authority figure standing between them—there was something in his posture that made Edmund shift uneasily.

The seasoned officer rubbed his temples, signaling for Edmund to sit down. “Look, both of you need to cool it. Our job here is to keep the peace, which means you two need to hash it out on your own. Come to an agreement or take it to court. But if you keep making a scene, I’ll issue an arrest warrant, no questions asked.”

At that, Edward fell silent, grudgingly aware that aggravating the police wouldn’t serve his interests.

Deep down, his goal remained singular: to have his precious screen back, and not just any version—the one restored to its former glory. If that couldn’t happen, he expected fair market compensation from Embroiderer's Hall.

However, if the Hall had been amenable to negotiation, they wouldn’t have found themselves in this uproar to begin with. The underlying issue was that no one within reach had the skill to repair the aged embroidery, particularly without risking irreversible damage to a piece of history. And the few capable hands wouldn’t dare touch it; the prospect was too risky.

Just then, breaking the heavy air, Edward offered, “Listen, I have a solution. If you trust me, I can handle the repairs.”

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