Jack's breath came in shallow bursts as he braced himself against the worn wooden table, feeling the unfamiliar weight of his new body. His hands—small, fragile—gripped the edge of the table, the trembling not just from physical weakness but from something deeper, something unsettling. His mind was far older than the body he inhabited, yet the child's instincts fought against him. He had been a man of experience, a killer without remorse. Now, in this small frame, he was clumsy, uncertain, and vulnerable.
His fingers traced the jagged edges of the splintered wood. A child, he thought bitterly. I'm trapped in the body of a child.
The harsh reality clawed at him. He wanted to lash out, to tear at the walls of the small, suffocating room that felt both foreign and oddly familiar. But he couldn't. Not like this. Not with the emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface—fear, doubt, hesitation. His body was betraying him.
Focus, he told himself, willing the overwhelming sensations into submission. He stood and tested his balance. A step forward, his legs uncooperative. Every movement was too slow, too weak. He was used to precision, control. But now, his control was a fading memory.
Panic twisted in his gut as a flash of heat surged through his chest. He blinked, disoriented, and shook his head, trying to expel the confusion. Stop it. He slammed his fist into the table, the thud louder than expected for such a small hand. The child's body responded in unexpected ways. His heart raced as if it too had lost its steady rhythm.
You're not a child. He said the words in his mind, but they rang hollow. A part of him—something instinctual, primal—wanted to curl up and cry. The thought disgusted him. He wouldn't allow it. But it was hard. Too hard. Every second in this frail, powerless body was a challenge.
Jack forced himself to take another look around the room, ignoring the discomfort. The gravekeeper's house was a shambles. Dust-covered furniture, forgotten relics, and odd knickknacks littered the place. A lamp flickered dimly on a shelf, casting long shadows across the walls. There, half-hidden beneath a tattered rug, was a small, rusted dagger. Jack's eyes narrowed.
Instinct pulled him toward it, fingers brushing the cool metal. He pocketed it quickly, a wave of calm washing over him as the familiar weight settled in his palm. This—this—he could use. His old self, the one that had killed without hesitation, was still there, lurking beneath the surface. But it was buried, suppressed by the constant reminders of his new, fragile form.
He turned away from the dagger, focusing on the cluttered shelves. Maps, coins, foreign trinkets—nothing of particular value, but each one whispered of a world far from his understanding. This wasn't the world he had known. Where am I?
Memories began to crack through the haze of his thoughts—flashes of faces, sounds, a name. Jack's mind recoiled from the rush of images. He saw the child's life—his family, his home, the warmth of hands that had never belonged to him. The child's death. And the terror. Being buried alive. His pulse quickened. It wasn't his life, but it had become his body.
Another image. A shadowed figure. A face that wasn't quite clear. Jack flinched. It came too quickly, too sharply, and it left him gasping, hands gripping the edge of the table as if it were the only thing anchoring him.
The rush of emotions wasn't just from the boy's memories—it was as if the body itself had inherited them, the fear, the love, the pain. It made him sick. I don't need this. I don't need these feelings. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to scream.
But he couldn't afford to stay here, locked in this house. He needed answers. The world outside had to hold the key to his strange resurrection. The city—a few miles away, as the maps suggested—was his destination. He'd start there, make his way into the heart of this new life, uncover its mysteries, and regain control. He didn't care how.
The sun had just begun to rise as Jack slipped into the shadows, careful to avoid making a sound. His mind was a storm, but his body—clumsy and small as it was—had to move like a predator. He'd learned that much from his past. And his instincts were beginning to sharpen.
Just as he reached the door, a rustling outside froze him. A voice. Footsteps. Someone had heard him.
No. He crouched low, slipping behind a bookshelf and holding his breath, listening intently. The person outside wasn't moving fast, just cautious. It could be anyone—a villager, another caretaker—but Jack wasn't taking chances.
From the crack in the door, he could see the silhouette of someone approaching. Jack remained perfectly still, barely breathing, feeling his pulse in his throat. The world outside the gravekeeper's house was a maze of dangers he didn't yet understand. But he would learn. He had to.
The figure stopped just outside, listening. Jack's grip tightened around the dagger. There was no going back now. He would either survive this encounter or let the boy's body crumble beneath him.