"Who... am I?"
A jagged bolt of lightning ripped through the pitch-black clouds,followed by a deluge that crashed down like the heavens themselves were unleashing their fury.
The muddy ground drank it in, and in the shimmering puddles, the fractured reflection of a figure in a deep red robe flickered like a broken dream.
It was a young man, clad in a sweeping red drama robe, lurching through the mire as if he'd had one too many drinks.
His wide sleeves flapped wildly in the gusting wind, the rain sluicing off layers of mud to reveal a crimson so vivid it might as well have been blood.
In the swallowing dark of the night, it was a sight that jolted the senses.
"Stop it... stop it!" he shouted, his voice a fragile thread against the storm's roar.
"Everyone, shut up! I'm so close... I almost have it... I have a name... my own name!"
Wet strands of black hair clung to his forehead, dripping into eyes clouded with confusion.
He clutched his head with both hands, staggering forward as if wrestling with something inside him, some memory clawing to break free.
His cries echoed down the empty street, but the endless curtain of rain swallowed them whole.
Then—thud.
A hidden stone snagged his foot, sending him sprawling face-first into the muck.
A thin trickle of blood seeped from his brow as he lay there, stunned. But in that dazed moment, something sparked in his murky gaze.
"Rhys..."
The name flashed through his mind like a beacon.
The second he whispered it, a shard of memory broke loose from the chaos churning in his skull, fusing with his battered body.
"What is this... transmigration?"
Rhys muttered, his brow creasing as he tried to make sense of it.
His head pounded like it was splitting in two, assaulted by the flood of this body's past.
He was Rhys, 28, an intern director at a theater in Washington, D.C..
The last thing he remembered was lingering on stage after a show, sketching out blocking for the actors.
Then came the earthquake—sudden, violent.
A searing pain in his skull, then nothing.
A falling spotlight must have crushed him.
Now, here he was, piecing together the memories of this body—another Rhys.
Same name, but a completely different life.
The clash of their fragmented histories tore at his mind, threatening to unravel him.
He sucked in ragged breaths, hauling himself up from the ground.
His robe hung heavy, streaked with mud and crimson, a mess that mirrored his state.
Exhaustion weighed him down, bone-deep, like he'd been burning the candle at both ends for days with no reprieve.
"Need to get home..." he rasped, thoughts tangled and body screaming for rest.
Trusting the instincts baked into this flesh, he started toward "home."
He had no clue how he'd ended up here, but this body knew the way.
Every day, its original owner walked this path after tending to his brother at the clinic—a quick two- or three-minute stroll.
Tonight, though, it stretched on forever.
The rain was frigid, soaking through to his marrow, and he trembled as he pressed on.
After ten grueling minutes, he finally stood before the door he recognized from those borrowed memories.
He patted his pockets—no keys.
Muscle memory took over, guiding his hand beneath the mailbox to fish out a spare.
With a shaky twist, the lock clicked, and the door creaked open.
Warm light poured out, cutting through the stormy gloom and bathing his pale face in its glow.
That light hit him like a lifeline.
The tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction, the cold and fatigue retreating under the promise of shelter.
He stepped inside and froze.
Two figures sat at the dining table, their eyes rimmed red like they'd been sobbing.
The sound of the door jerked their heads around in unison.
"Dad... Mom... I'm back,"Rhys said, his voice thick with exhaustion.
He bent to swap his shoes out of habit, only to realize his feet were bare, caked in mud that now smeared across the floor in bold, black prints.
The pair at the table gaped at him, pupils shrinking to pinpricks.
"You... you..." the man croaked, his voice catching as if he'd glimpsed a phantom.
"Mom... water. I'm so thirsty,"
Rhys mumbled, teetering on the edge of collapse.
He shuffled into the kitchen, snatching the jug from the dispenser and gulping it down like a man starved.
Gulp, gulp, gulp...
In the dim kitchen light, the red-robed figure drank like a feral thing, water spilling from his lips to puddle on the floor.
The reflections caught the horrified faces staring from the living room.
"Rh... Rhys?"
The woman's voice quivered as she forced the words out.
"How... how are you back?"
Rhys didn't hear her, too lost in his frantic thirst.
The jug's trickle wasn't enough—he jammed the thick spout into his mouth and bit down, cracking the plastic.
Water gushed free, and he drank it down in messy, desperate swallows.
"I walked back," a voice replied from behind him.
Yes—behind him.
Even as he guzzled, that voice rang clear in their ears.
It was as if another Rhys stood in the shadows at his back, arms wide, answering with casual ease.
"Raining hard out there. Think I got turned around."
"Fell a couple times, lost my shoes..."
"Mom, sorry about the floor. I'll clean it tomorrow if it's not a rush... too wiped out now."
The air turned icy.
The oil lamp on the table sputtered wildly, like some unseen hand was teasing the flame.
The man and woman stood rooted, faces drained of color, too petrified to twitch.
At last, the jug ran dry.
Rhys swiped his mouth, set it aside, and turned.
Muddy footprints trailed him as he lurched toward his room.
"Dad, Mom... get some rest. Night," he slurred, shutting the door behind him.
A heavy thump followed—he'd hit the bed and passed out.
Silence swallowed the living room.
Minutes crawled by before the two figures dared to move, turning to face each other like statues coming to life.
The lamp steadied, its weak glow barely holding back the dark, but it couldn't touch the pallor on their faces.
"He's... back," the man rasped, voice raw.
"How's that possible..."
"If that's really Rhys..."
"Then who the hell did we kill last night?"