The next morning came with a strange heaviness in the air.
Not weather.Not sickness.Not exhaustion.
Something else.
A feeling he recognized from his past life—the moment before something important shifts.
His mother moved slower than usual, her eyes dimmed by the boy's threats, her shoulders curled inward as if trying to make herself smaller.
Fear does that.Poverty does that.Powerlessness does that.
But he wouldn't let her sink again.
Not in this life.
Despite everything, she still prepared the small cloth bag of handmade wallets and small pouches she'd sewn last night.
She hesitated at the door, whispering,"Should I… even try again…? What if his father finds out…?"
He reached for her hand with his small fingers and tugged.
"Go," he said softly.
Her breath caught.
"You… you want us to try again?"
He nodded.
She gave a fragile smile and kissed the top of his head.
"Okay… let's try."
They headed toward the market again—this time with her steps slower, eyes scanning the alleys in fear the teenage boy's father might appear.
She set up in the same small spot as last time, though she kept glancing over her shoulder.
Her hands shook as she arranged the items.
People walked by.
They looked.They paused.But… none stopped today.
A few eyed her nervously, whispering:
"Isn't she the one the sewing shop yelled at yesterday?""She shouldn't cause trouble…""Poor thing… but I don't want problems."
Her heart sank.He could feel it in the way she held him closer.
Today looked like failure.
Then, an unexpected voice crossed the crowd.
"Excuse me… did you sew these?"
A woman in her late twenties crouched down to examine the wallets. She wore a simple gray coat, but her posture and tone revealed something different—
Confidence.Money.Status.
Not rich…But definitely not struggling.
His mother nodded quietly.
"Yes… I made them."
The woman smiled. "You're talented. I've been searching for someone who can sew small accessories. I run a small boutique for handmade items."
A boutique.
A real business.
Opportunity.
His mother's eyes widened, cautious and hopeful at the same time.
The woman picked up three wallets and a pouch.
"These are good. How much?"
His mother's voice trembled. "₩2,000… each."
The woman blinked.
"That's too low."
His mother flinched. "I-I'm sorry, I can lower—"
"No," the woman said firmly. "These are worth at least ₩5,000. Maybe more if we package them nicely."
His mother's lips parted in absolute shock.
The baby's eyes narrowed slightly.
This woman…saw value.Saw talent.Saw potential.
But also—the way she scanned the seams, inspected the fabric, measured the quality with quick, professional movements—
She saw business.
He liked her already.
The woman smiled. "I'll take these four. And… do you take larger orders? I could sell your items in my shop."
His mother froze.
Larger orders?A shop?A stable buyer?
Her voice broke. "I… I… yes. Yes, I can."
The woman grinned. "Wonderful. Let me give you my card—"
But fate loves balance.
And the world loves irony.
Because at that exact moment—
A loud, angry voice cut through the market.
"There she is!"
The teenage boy's father stormed toward the stall, face red, chest puffed with false authority. The boy followed behind with a smug grin.
His mother immediately shrank.
"I told you," the man barked, "no selling! I need you sewing clothes, not wasting time on this garbage!"
The boutique woman straightened, confused and offended. "Excuse me, sir? She's not doing anything wrong."
"She works for me," he shouted. "If she wants my orders, she doesn't sell here!"
His mother whispered,"I… I just tried…"
"You think you can start your own business? Don't be stupid! Don't forget who feeds you."
A knife twisted in her chest.
The baby felt it.
That sentence—
"Don't forget who feeds you"—
Was exactly the type of sentence that had crushed him in his last life.
Controlling.Demeaning.Abusive.
The boutique woman glared sharply.
"Sir, she is not your property."
"She's poor," he snapped. "She needs my shop."
"And you're exploiting her," the woman snapped back.
The man turned to his mother. "If you don't stop this RIGHT NOW, don't bother coming to the shop again."
His mother trembled.
The baby's small hands balled into fists.
She needed the shop's money.But she needed freedom too.
Her lips parted—
But nothing came out.
She was frozen between fear and survival.
A moment away from losing everythingor gaining something new.
And then—
He tugged at the boutique woman's sleeve.
She looked down.
Then he pointed at his mother.Then at the wallets.
Then at his own small chest.
And said clearly:
"Mama… good."
The boutique woman blinked.His mother choked on a sob.The crowd around them paused.
The sewing shop owner stared in disbelief.
The toddler stepped forward, wobbling but steady—standing between the shop owner and his mother.
He raised his small arms as if blocking the man.
"Bad," he said to the shop owner."Mama… make good."
His mother's hand flew to her mouth.
The crowd murmured.
The boutique woman smiled.A smile sharp enough to cut through arrogance.
"You heard him," she said calmly. "Mama makes good."
The shop owner's face twitched with anger.
"You—! You think some toddler's words matter?"
But the crowd was watching now.And in poor neighborhoods, gossip was currency.
The boutique woman took out her wallet.
"I'll buy everything she has today. And I want to place a big order."
Gasps rippled through the small crowd.
His mother nearly collapsed.
The shop owner choked on air.
The woman continued,"And if you have a problem with her making money, that's your problem. Not hers."
The sewing shop owner sputtered, rage burning his face.
"This isn't over," he hissed.
He turned and stomped away.
The teenage boy glared at the child—
But the toddler stared back with unsettling calm,like someone who had lived a lifetime longer.
The boy looked away first.
When the dust settled, the boutique woman sighed.
"Don't listen to men like him. You have talent. Don't waste it under people who want you small."
Tears streamed down his mother's face.
"I… I don't know what to say…"
"Say yes to the order," the woman said gently. "And give me your number."
His mother nodded, shaking, overwhelmed.
The woman crouched in front of the toddler.
"You're a brave little one," she whispered.
He just blinked innocently.
But inside?
This was not bravery.This was strategy.This was war beginning to shift.
As the boutique woman walked away, his mother fell to her knees and hugged him tightly, crying into his hair.
"You… you protected me again…" she whispered. "You're my angel…"
He pressed his forehead against her shoulder.
Angel?No.
He was a man reborn with a mission.
And today proved something important:
He could change fate even with tiny hands.Imagine what he would do when he grew.