I went on a trip with my best friend, bringing our kids along.
At a famous Los Angeles tourist hotspot, my son ordered a bowl of noodles. When he wasn’t full and asked for more, someone pointed at him and cursed:
“Shameless brat! What, are you broke? Ordering one bowl of noodles and asking for refills again and again? No manners—your parents must both be dead!”
Furious, I argued with the owner. Unexpectedly, he splashed boiling soup onto me and my son.
While we were still at the hospital, the owner posted our pictures online, claiming the four of us had shared a single bowl. Soon after, both my son and I became the target of online abuse.
I was determined to seek justice for my child, but before I could, a truck ran us over.
When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day we went to that noodle shop.
…
“All right, so it’s settled—we’ll go to that hotspot tomorrow. I heard their noodles are amazing.”
The familiar words made me shiver. I turned my head instinctively and saw the face of my best friend, Chloe Miller.
Glancing around at my surroundings, I instantly understood.
I had been reborn.
My son—my heart clenched, and I quickly looked over. He was squatting on the floor, playing with his toy, and I finally let out a breath of relief.
“What do you think I should wear? This green dress, or the pink one?”
Chloe had already pulled clothes from her suitcase, holding them up to the mirror.
The sight of her filled me with hatred.
In my past life, she had entered the noodle shop with us—she knew exactly how much we ordered.
When the internet tore me and my son apart, I begged her countless times to testify for us.
But Chloe, who was supposed to be my closest friend, suddenly changed her face.
She flatly denied everything, refusing to stand up for us.
Before that truck killed me and my son, I had watched her step out of my husband’s car.
I never got the chance to figure out why—because I was already dead.
Now Chloe was holding designer clothes, all limited editions.
There was no way she could afford them on her own. And when I compared her daughter’s face with my son’s, a wild, unsettling thought crept into my mind.
My fists clenched tightly. The more I thought about it, the more possible it seemed.
Countless little details I had once ignored surfaced in my memory.
“Mommy, what are you thinking about? Aunt Chloe said the handmade noodles there are really delicious—we have to go tomorrow!”
My son’s voice snapped me back. I instinctively pulled him into my arms.
I almost refused outright, but when I saw Chloe standing not far away, I changed my mind.
I would still go to that noodle shop. But this time, I was going to expose the hidden hand behind our deaths.
I didn’t believe in coincidences—not this many.
The next morning, Chloe practically banged down our door in excitement.
When I noticed the purse hanging on her arm, my heart sank.
I had once seen that exact bag in my husband’s car. Back then, I thought it was meant to be a birthday surprise for me.
I never imagined it would appear on Chloe’s arm instead.
All the way there, she kept enthusiastically recommending the noodle shop. To anyone who didn’t know better, it would seem like she owned the place.
Before stepping inside, I glanced at the hidden camera on my button and the recorder hidden in my bag.
This time, I was fully prepared. I would never allow them to frame us again.
I needed to see exactly what these demons were plotting.
Just like in my previous life, my son ordered a bowl of handmade noodles. But the portion was so tiny that even a child couldn’t get full from it.
