Chapter 2: Understanding the World
As the light of dawn filled the small room, the woman held her newborn close, her tears still falling but now mixed with a profound sense of relief. She looked down at her son's tiny face, his eyes blinking up at her with an awareness she could not understand. "Hayyan," she whispered through her sobs, brushing his cheek gently. "You are Hayyan."
And so, without his input, the name was given. He felt a strange tug of emotion as the name echoed in his mind—Hayyan. It wasn't a name he knew, but now, it was his.
Before he could dwell too much on this strange new reality, the woman—his mother—lifted him to her breast. Instinct took over as he began nursing, though inwardly, Hayyan cringed with embarrassment. This is so weird, he thought, his mind still that of a mature university student. But in this fragile, tiny body, he had little choice. I guess this is part of being a baby.
Despite the awkwardness of his situation, he couldn't help but feel a warmth he hadn't expected. His new mother's heartbeat was a steady rhythm in his ears, and her soft words of comfort wrapped around him like a blanket. The scent of her skin, the warmth of her embrace—it was soothing in a way he had never experienced before. Is this what it's like to be loved unconditionally? he wondered, a strange sense of peace settling over him.
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Days turned into weeks, and Hayyan's world grew a little larger each day. His mother, who had named him so lovingly, was never far from his side. She doted on him, carrying him wherever she went, her face always lit with joy when she looked at him. His days were filled with her soft voice singing lullabies, her gentle hands cradling him, and her eyes watching over him with a love that felt all-encompassing.
Hayyan soon realized that his understanding of this new world had to be gradual. He was still trapped in a baby's body, his movements restricted, but his mind was as sharp as ever. He could see the rough wooden walls of their home, the flickering light of oil lamps, and the simplicity of the medieval life he had fallen into.
He learned quickly that his family was neither wealthy nor poor—just humble people living in a small, quiet village. His father worked long hours, but he could see the tenderness in his eyes whenever he returned home to them. And his mother, well, she rarely let him out of her sight, her protective instincts strong and unyielding. She would hum softly to him as she worked, feeding him and bathing him, her attention solely focused on his well-being.
I need to figure out more about this world, Hayyan thought, lying in his cradle one night. His mind was far too active to accept the simplicity of a baby's life. There were bigger questions that gnawed at him—where was he? What kind of world was this? His mother and father spoke in a language that was only just starting to make sense to him, but he could tell that magic and superstition lingered in their words, especially when they spoke in hushed tones to each other.
This place is medieval, but different from what I know. His parents didn't speak of them, but he could feel that magic was a real and dangerous force in this world.
For now, though, Hayyan's life was filled with the comfort of his mother's love and the slow, steady rhythm of life in the village. But he knew that soon, he would need to understand this world more fully—its dangers, its powers, and the role he would have to play in it.
Each day began in the same way: the gentle, filtered light of the sun slipping through the cracks in the shutters, casting soft beams onto the wooden floor. Hayyan would wake to the sound of his mother's soft humming. She always rose early, her morning routine as constant as the sunrise itself. He felt her presence even before he opened his eyes—the soft rustle of her dress, the faint clink of dishes as she prepared breakfast for herself and his father. But her first task was always him.
She would lift him from his cradle, her warm hands cradling his tiny form. "Good morning, my little Hayyan," she would whisper with a smile that never failed to light up her face. Her voice was a lullaby in itself, filled with love and tenderness. She would press her lips gently to his forehead before feeding him, allowing him to nurse as she stroked his tiny hands.
Despite the awkwardness that still lingered in Hayyan's mind from his previous life, there was something profoundly comforting in these moments. His mother's love was a steady, unwavering force—one that surrounded him every waking minute. He was her world, and in this new life, she had quickly become his.
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Their days followed a predictable rhythm. After feeding him, she would carry him outside, wrapping him in soft cloth to keep him warm against the morning chill. The village was a quiet, rustic place, and Hayyan's mother would walk with him in her arms, greeting their neighbors as they passed. Her joy was infectious, and people would smile when they saw her with the baby boy she had once feared she had lost.
Hayyan's mother often spent the morning tending to small chores—hanging clothes to dry, preparing meals, and gathering herbs from a small garden beside their home. She would sit with him outside, setting him in a makeshift cradle as she worked nearby. She would talk to him constantly, even if he could only respond with soft coos and giggles.
"I wonder what kind of man you'll grow up to be," she mused one morning, her voice light as she worked. "You'll be strong, just like your father. And kind, I hope."
Her words settled in Hayyan's mind, and though he couldn't speak yet, he felt a quiet promise take root. He would not disappoint her. This woman deserves the world, he thought, his heart swelling with a love he hadn't expected. He felt strangely lucky, despite everything—despite the odd circumstances of his transmigration, despite being stuck in a baby's body. The love his mother showered on him made this new life feel more bearable.
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Every day ended much like it began, with his mother by his side. After a long day of caring for him, she would bathe him in a small basin, her hands gentle as she washed away the dirt from his skin. Her touch was always soft, her voice soothing.
"Hayyan," she would murmur, rocking him gently in her arms as the firelight flickered in the corner of the room. "You are my greatest joy."
As the evening grew darker, she would sing him lullabies—soft, lilting songs that seemed to calm every fiber of his being. Her voice had a magical quality to it, filling the small space they called home with warmth and comfort. He would fall asleep to the sound of her voice, the soft rhythm of her rocking, and the steady beat of her heart against his cheek.
For Hayyan, this daily routine became a comforting constant, a reminder of the love and safety that surrounded him. His days were filled with simple joys—the warmth of his mother's embrace, the softness of her voice, the quiet peace of their village life.
Though his mind was still sharp and adult, he allowed himself to sink into the happiness of these moments. I'll figure out this world soon enough, he thought. But for now, this is enough.