A sharp and cold air burned its way through my lungs it shocking me awake, It was like drowning in ice and yet I had no memory of falling.
My chest convulsed, forcing out a desperate wail—high-pitched, weak, unnatural.
"What's happening?!"
Panic surged through me but my body refused to obey, my limbs flailed, fragile and uncoordinated, its nothing like what I remembered.
Wait what did I remember?, That thought slipped away before I could grasp it, like a dream fading at dawn.
A blinding light seared my vision. Muffled voices followed—deep, unfamiliar and speaking in a language I couldn't understand.
Silhouettes loomed over me, their shapes wrong, elongated. Or was my vision simply failing me?.
The warmth I had known moments ago was gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness that sent a primal fear through me.
"This….. this isn't right"
I tried to move, to speak, to make sense of it all, but all I could do was cry. I wasn't just reborn. I was powerless. And that terrified me.
But the terror didn't last long.
My body, so weak and fragile, couldn't handle the sudden shock of existence, a deep exhaustion pulled me downward, my thoughts fading into nothingness.
And just like that, before I could even comprehend where I was… I fell into unconsciousness.
(A Few Moments Ago…)
The dimly lit room was filled with tension. A woman's strained breathing, the quiet murmurs of reassurance, and the faint crackling of a dying fire.
"One more push," the old caregiver urged, her voice steady despite the exhaustion lining her face.
The mother already drenched in sweat, gave a final, desperate cry—then silence a heavy stillness hung in the air.
Then, the wail of a newborn has shattered the silence.
The father let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his hands, rough from years of labor, trembled as he reached forward. But he hesitated.
"Is he breathing?" His voice was rough, tight with worry.
The caregiver wiped the child's face with a damp cloth, her practiced hands moving with care.
"Yes. But he was slow to cry. The cold air must have shocked him."
She wrapped the newborn in soft, worn fabric and handed him to his mother. Weak but smiling, the woman held her child close, pressing her lips against his tiny forehead.
"My son….." she softly whispered.
The father sat beside her, exhaling soft yet deeply.
His fingers brushed the infant's hand, marveling at how small it was.
"He will be strong," he said, as if willing it into existence.
The baby's cries eventualy quieted, his tiny body relaxing against his mother's warmth, the exhaustion of birth had taken its toll and soon, he drifted into sleep.
Outside, the cold wind howled through the cracks in the wooden walls, but inside, a new life had begun.
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
Time has passed in a blur of warmth, hunger, and sleepness.
Days did eventualy has turned into weeks and then weeks into months....
At first, the world was nothing but vague shapes and muffled sounds a haze of light and darkness.
But slowly, clarity seeped in.
The blurred figures became familiar his mother's eyes was gentle, the warmth of her embrace and the way she hummed softly as she rocked him to sleep.
His father's presence was strong, his hands rough from labor yet careful when holding him.
The old caregiver, who often murmured words he haven't understand, always smelled like herbs and earth.
The strange language that once felt like meaningless noise began to take form. At first, they were just sounds, repeated over and over.
But soon, they became more understable.
"Food.""Sleep.""Son.""Love."
The meaning slipped into his mind like scattered pieces of a puzzle slowly fitting together.
"This… I can understand it."
But understanding wasn't enough.
He was still trapped within a fragile body that refused to obey him.
His limbs, thin and weak, barely responded to his commands.
At first, even lifting his hand felt like moving a mountain.
He would flail and struggle, frustration boiling within him as his body refused to cooperate.
"Damn it… move!"
But it never did, at least not at first.
So, he observed.
He watched the people around him on how they moved and how they spoken.
He listened to their voices, memorizing the rhythm within their speech, their expressions and their gestures.
He learned their habits, their routines. And every night, as he lay in the wooden crib wrapped in rough blankets, he tried again.
A twitch of his fingers. A curl of his toes. A shift of his wrist.
Slow, weak, but progress nonetheless.
Time was on his side.
His body was indeed weak, but his mind remained sharp
And so, with each passing day, he adapted. He was no longer just surviving—he was growing.