《Quick Wear: She Wins every life》khileshwari

1、第 1 章

　　I don’t know what woke me — a distant voice, maybe the clatter of heels across creaky wood. But I opened my eyes slowly, and the first thing I saw was… ceiling beams.
　　Wooden, uneven, ancient-looking beams stretched above me, and below them hung a yellowing canopy, like something pulled out of a costume drama. It took a moment to register that the mattress beneath me was lumpy and the fabric scratchy, nothing like my college dorm bed.
　　Then I sat up — or tried to — and gasped. My arms were tiny. My legs even smaller. I was… short. Not just short. I was a toddler.
　　The room spun, and a sharp panic rose in my throat. I scrambled to the edge of the bed, swinging my legs down, and they didn’t even touch the floor. My balance wobbled. My breath came in short, fast gasps.
　　What was happening?
　　I blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the heavy curtains, the carved dresser, the faint scent of wood polish and something… floral. No humming of electronics. No glowing phone screen. No posters, no laptop, no sound of traffic outside. Just silence, punctuated by distant footsteps and murmured voices from beyond the closed door.
　　Where was I?
　　I rubbed my eyes, trying to wake up. Maybe this was a dream. A lucid one, though. I could feel the texture of my nightdress — rough linen, far too coarse for any modern fabric. My hair tickled my neck. Even the air smelled old.
　　Then I heard it.
　　“…Mrs. Bennet said she’s expecting again. Heaven help us.”
　　The voice came through the door — a woman’s, maybe a maid’s, judging by the soft scolding tone and her light accent.
　　Mrs. Bennet?
　　No. That couldn’t be right.
　　I froze, every nerve in my tiny body suddenly alert. Mrs. Bennet. I knew that name. Of course I knew that name.
　　Pride and Prejudice.
　　I’d read it. Studied it in school. Watched the BBC adaptation twice. My breath caught.
　　This had to be a joke. Some immersive experience? A VR prank? But no, I remembered everything — college, the late-night chai from the canteen, my half-written graduate school applications, that vague sense of aimlessness, of standing at the edge of adulthood without a clue what came next.
　　And now this.
　　I pushed myself off the bed — wobbling, nearly falling — and made my way toward the window. My little legs could barely carry me, but somehow I reached it. The glass was thick and uneven, the frame stiff. Outside, no cars, no electric poles — just an expanse of green fields and a grey sky.
　　Not a dream.
　　Not a joke.
　　And judging by my reflection in the dusty glass — light brown hair in curls, soft chubby cheeks — I wasn’t myself anymore.
　　I was someone else.
　　I turned back toward the room and caught sight of a small mirror above the washstand. With effort, I toddled over and climbed onto the stool beneath it.
　　My reflection stared back.
　　And then it hit me like a wave crashing into shore.
　　I was a baby. A Miss Bennet.
　　What kind of cruel twist of fate was this?
　　I didn’t cry. I was too stunned. My throat was dry, my hands trembling slightly. I sat there in silence, trying to absorb the impossible truth.
　　I had transmigrated.
　　Into a novel.
　　As Miss Bennet.
　　Someone knocked softly at the door before opening it.
　　A young maid peeked in, blinking in surprise when she saw me out of bed.
　　“Oh, little miss mary! You’ll catch your death on the floor,” she scolded gently and hurried over to lift me. I was too stunned to resist.
　　She carried me back to the bed, humming softly as she tucked me in. Her accent was warm — proper English, but not quite upper class. She smelled faintly of lavender and flour.
　　As she adjusted the blanket, she looked down at me and smiled. “You gave us quite the scare last week. Feverish and quiet as a mouse.”
　　So Mary had been sick. Maybe that was when… whatever happened, happened.
　　She patted my forehead and left, her skirts swishing as the door closed behind her.
　　Then I knew.. I was Someone knocked softly at the door before opening it.
　　A young maid peeked in, blinking in surprise when she saw me out of bed.
　　“Oh, little miss! You’ll catch your death on the floor,” she scolded gently and hurried over to lift me. I was too stunned to resist.
　　She carried me back to the bed, humming softly as she tucked me in. Her accent was warm — proper English, but not quite upper class. She smelled faintly of lavender and flour.
　　As she adjusted the blanket, she looked down at me and smiled. “You gave your mother quite the scare last week. Feverish and quiet as a mouse.”
　　So Mary had been sick. Maybe that was when… whatever happened, happened.
　　She patted my forehead and left, her skirts swishing as the door closed behind her.
　　Then I knew, I was Mary Bennet, The quiet one. The forgotten sister. The one whose story never mattered.
　　I was in England , pre 19th century. The era with so little womens' rights. With only the choice to marry a husband. It was so odd , no schools with mathematics and science.
　　I lay there staring at the ceiling again.
　　A part of me wanted to scream. This wasn’t fair. I hadn’t asked for this. I wasn’t even particularly obsessed with historical fiction. I was just an ordinary girl, trying to figure life out — and now I was a two-year-old in 18th-century England?
　　But another part of me — the curious part, the one that had always stayed quiet in school but listened closely — was… intrigued.
　　This world was real now.
　　And I was Mary.