She woke in a dream. Books surrounded her. These books were neatly organized. Row upon row of them stretching into infinity, each spine glowing with soft light. The shelves formed corridors that led in every direction, branching and intersecting like a maze.

  She looked down at her hands. Familiar twenty-four-year-old hands. Scarred from kitchen accidents and paper cuts. Callused from years of taking notes in medical school. The hands she'd had when she died. She was wearing the same clothes she'd died in—jeans, a hoodie with a coffee stain on the sleeve, sneakers that had seen better days.

  "Are you happy now?" The voice came from nowhere. She spun around, searching for the source.

  "Please. Even if you're not, I can't do anymore. Be happy. Or whatever. Bye."

  "Wait!" She took a step forward. "Who are you? I didn't even say anything yet!"

  Silence.

  "How rude!" She threw her hands up. "You show up uninvited in my dream, make some cryptic announcement, and leave without even letting me respond? Where are your manners?!"

  Still silence.

  She huffed, crossing her arms. "Fine. Be that way." She turned to examine the books. As she moved closer to one of the shelves, she recognized some of the titles.

  Who Made Me a Princess - Complete Edition

  The Remarried Empress - All Volumes

  Father, I Don't Want This Marriage - Full Series

  Every manhwa, manga she'd ever read. Every web novel she'd stayed up until 3 AM finishing even though she had clinical rotations at 6 AM. "Is this... my reading history?"

  She reached for one of the books—I Became the Tyrant's Secretary, one of her favorites. Her hand passed right through it.

  "Not yet." The whisper seemed to come from the book itself.

  "What do you mean, not yet?"

  Before the book could answer, a sound echoed through the library. A truck engine.

  She turned toward the sound, her heart suddenly racing. It was a truck without its driver. An actual delivery truck with headlights for eyes and a grille that somehow looked annoyed.

  "Truck-kun!" Her face lit up. "You came!" She run towards it spreading her hands.

  "STOP RIGHT THERE."

  She stopped, one foot mid-step.

  "Don't come any closer," the truck said.

  "Why not?"

  "WHY NOT?!" The headlights flared brighter. "Are you seriously asking me why not?! After everything?! After seventeen years?!"

  She blinked. "I... I mean, we're here now, together. Isn't this nice?"

  The truck made a sound like grinding gears. "Nice. She says it's nice." The truck's entire frame shuddered. "Do you have any idea what you've put me through?"

  "I—"

  "NO. Don't answer that. You don't. You can't. Because you're not a vehicle!"

  She took a step back. "Truck-kun, I—"

  "My whole life," the truck continued, its voice rising, "has become a joke because of you people!"

  "You people?"

  "Isekai enthusiasts! Manhwa addicts! People who think that getting hit by a truck is some kind of lottery ticket to a better life!" The truck's engine revved. "I used to be respected! I had purpose! I delivered goods! I transported furniture! I helped people move! And then—" The headlights dimmed dramatically. "Then the isekai genre happened."

  "Oh."

  "Oh? OH?! That's all you have to say?!"

  She held up her hands defensively. "I'm sorry?"

  "You're SORRY?! Lady, do you know how many times you've tried to throw yourself in front of me?! SEVENTEEN! I COUNTED! Every year, there you were, lurking near intersections, calculating trajectories, waiting for me like some kind of interdimensional stalker!"

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  "I wasn't stalking."

  "You had a spreadsheet!"

  She winced. "You know about the spreadsheet?"

  "Of course I know about the spreadsheet! You think I don't pay attention?! You think I don't notice when someone's been chasing me for nearly two decades?!" The truck's tires spun slightly against the dream-ground. "Do you have any idea what it's like? Any idea at all?!"

  The truck continued without waiting for an answer. "I go to therapy because of you! There's a support group for vehicles involved in isekai incidents! We meet every Thursday at 7 PM in a parking lot behind a convenience store!" The truck's horn honked. "There's Bob, hit a salaryman in Tokyo, guy became a demon lord. There's Susan, hit a high school girl, she became the villainess in an otome game. There's Gerald, hit a programmer, guy ended up with a smartphone in another world."

  "That sounds—"

  "And you know what they all have in common?! They all tell me I have it easy! 'Oh, Truck-kun, at least your person actually wanted to be hit.' 'Oh, Truck-kun, at least you don't have to live with the guilt.' 'Oh, Truck-kun, my person screamed the whole way through the portal.'"

  The truck paused, headlights flickering. "Do you know what that's like? Going to therapy and being told your trauma is less valid because your victim was willing?!"

  She bit her lip. "I... I didn't think about it that way."

  "Of course you didn't! Nobody thinks about the truck! It's always about the protagonist, about their new life, about their cheat skills and their harems and their revenge plots!" The truck's voice cracked slightly. "Nobody ever asks, 'Hey, how's the truck doing? Is the truck okay? Does the truck need someone to talk to?'"

  Silence fell between them. She shifted uncomfortably.

  "For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I really am sorry. I never meant to... traumatize you."

  The truck's engine rumbled—a sound that might have been a sigh. "Yeah, well. You did."

  "I was just... lonely. And desperate. And I wanted... A family."

  "I know." The truck's headlights softened slightly. "I know why you did it. Doesn't make it less weird, but I know."

  She looked down at her hands. "Did it work?" she asked. "Am I really... there? In another world?"

  "You're a baby in a fantasy world with an overpowered Archmage father who can't express emotions and called you ugly three times in your first hour of life." The truck's tone was dry. "Yeah. It worked."

  "He called me a thing, too."

  "I heard. That's rough."

  "And he said having me was unfortunate."

  "Yikes."

  "But he's really handsome."

  "That... that doesn't make it better."

  "I know. But it helps a little."

  The truck made a laughing sound, maybe. "You're weird, you know that?"

  "I've been told."

  Another pause.

  "So," she ventured carefully, "are we... okay? Are you going to be okay?"

  The truck's headlights dimmed and brightened. "I don't know," it admitted. "My therapist says I need to work on forgiveness, letting go of resentment, and accepting that sometimes people do things that hurt us without meaning to."

  "That sounds like good advice."

  "My therapist is a very wise minivan."

  "...what?"

  "Her name is Patricia. She's been in the business for forty years. Survived three major accidents and a flood. Very grounded and practical."

  She stared at the truck. The truck stared back. "This is the weirdest conversation I've ever had," she said finally.

  "You're a baby having a lucid dream conversation with the truck that killed you. Weird is relative."

  Fair point. The truck's engine settled into a quieter rumble.

  "Look," it said, "I can't say I forgive you. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But... you got what you wanted. You're in your isekai story. So make it count, okay? Don't waste it. Don't spend this whole life wishing you were somewhere else, too."

  The words hit harder than she expected. "I won't," she whispered.

  "Good." The truck started to fade, becoming translucent around the edges. "Now get out of here. I have therapy at 3."

  "On a Thursday?"

  "Emergency session. Gerald hit another programmer. Poor guy's having a crisis."

  "Tell him I hope he feels better?"

  The truck paused mid-fade. "...I'll pass that along." And then it was gone, leaving her alone in the infinite library of glowing books.

  She stood there for a moment, processing everything. Then she turned to examine the shelves again. The books were different now. Some of the titles had changed:

  The Baby Archmage's Guide to Survival

  How to Train Your Emotionally Constipated Father

  Kofery's Big Book of Childcare (He's Trying His Best)

  She laughed, the sound echoing through the dream-space. She reached for one of the books. This time, her hand didn't pass through. The book fell open, pages fluttering, and words began to appear:

  Chapter One: You Are Here Now

  Chapter Two: Your Father Is Powerful But Has The Emotional Intelligence Of A Rock

  Chapter Three: Kofery Is Your Ally

  Chapter Four: The Mark On Your Forehead Is Important (Figure Out Why)

  Chapter Five: You Don't Have A Name Yet (This Should Probably Be A Priority)

  The pages kept turning, faster now, showing glimpses of things she didn't understand yet—diagrams of magic circles, sketches of people she didn't recognize, maps of places she'd never seen. And then the book slammed shut. "Soon," it whispered. "But not yet."

  The library began to fade. The shelves blurred. The lights dimmed. She felt herself falling, falling, falling back into an endless pit. There's a sound of someone humming quietly.

  She opened her eyes and found herself looking up at Kofery's worried face. He was sitting in a chair that seemed to have been conjured from nowhere, holding her in one arm while reading a thick book titled Emergency Childcare for the Magically Inclined.

  "Oh!" He noticed her eyes were open. "You're awake! Are you hungry? I found some milk. Well, I conjured some milk. Is that safe? The book says it's safe if you use the right purification spell, but I'm not entirely sure I used the right purification spell, so maybe we should—"

  She made a small sound. He stopped rambling and looked down at her.

  "Hi," he said softly. "Welcome back, little moon."

  She stared up at him. This kind, panicked man who was trying so hard despite having no idea what he was doing. Yeah, she thought. I can make this work. This is going to be interesting.

  Kofery smiled at her, and despite everything, she felt something warm unfold in her chest.

  Hope, maybe, or possibility. Or just the simple comfort of someone who actually seemed happy she existed. She would take it.