I would have been seeking justice for Lizzy, but also, in a way, seeking justice for my childhood self who had endured injustice.
Born into a family that favored sons over daughters, Lizzy, like me, was unfortunate.
But her misfortune wasn't caused by me. Thinking back to the suffocating sensation of drowning, this time, I simply listened quietly, choosing not to engage.
After checking the time, I found an excuse to leave.
Dodging the crowd, I made my way towards the kitchen, where, just like in my memories, my twelve-year-old niece, Lizzy, stood in front of a large pot, pouring some mysterious substance into it.
In my past life, I was startled and anxious, afraid she would do something foolish, so I hurried over and poured out that pot of oatmeal.
Yet I overlooked her calm demeanor at such a young age. Even upon seeing me, Lizzy showed no signs of panic. In her eyes, deep and cold as the abyss, there was only endless indifference and ruthlessness.
Lizzy's gaze was as calm as stagnant water without ripples.
She asked, his expression unreadable, "Auntie, are you going to expose me?"