The first thing he felt was warmth—an overwhelming, suffocating warmth that pressed against him from all sides. His senses were muted, his limbs unresponsive. He floated, weightless, the sensation foreign yet familiar. There was no real control, only instinct.
Then the warmth disappeared, replaced by a cruel, biting chill. Air rushed into his lungs, sharp and unfamiliar, forcing a sound from his throat—a wail, high-pitched and involuntary. The noise grated against his ears, yet he had no power to stop it.
Light flooded his vision, shapes blurring into existence, undefined and overwhelming. Sound followed—voices, hushed and urgent, foreign yet strangely soothing. A shadow moved above him, a figure wrapped in sterile white, hands steady and practiced.
"He's healthy," the voice said, confident. "Strong lungs."
A muffled response followed, thick with emotion, but the words slipped past him, too much to process. Everything was too much.
He tried to move, to find some control over his unresponsive body, but his limbs flailed uselessly. It was wrong, unnatural, yet the only thing he could do.
Another voice, softer, carried through the haze. "He's beautiful."
A shift, and suddenly he was enveloped in warmth again, cradled against something steady and rhythmic. A heartbeat. Familiar and safe. He let himself sink into it, exhaustion pulling at him, thoughts scattering into nothing.
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Time lost meaning. Moments passed in blurs of light and sound, touch and warmth. The world existed in patches—sometimes sharp, sometimes distant. He would wake to soft murmurs, the sensation of being carried, the quiet rustling of fabric. Other times, he faded in and out, consciousness slipping through his grasp like sand.
But when he was aware, truly aware, confusion struck deep.
He had died. He remembered that. The weight on his chest, the sharp burst of pain, the world slipping away. There had been no warnings, no dramatic realization—just an ending, abrupt and cruel.
And yet... here he was.
Was this reincarnation? The concept was absurd, ridiculous. People didn't just wake up in new bodies, in new lives. It was the stuff of stories, fantasies told to comfort those who feared death.
But if they knew—if people knew this was possible—
Would they fear death less? Or would they fight against it harder, knowing there was something beyond?
A ridiculous question. One without answers.
For now, he was here. And he had no choice but to exist in this fragile, unformed body, trapped within the unknown.
____________________♛_____________________
The days were endless, marked by routine, by softness. He became more aware of his surroundings, though not by choice, rather through necessity. Hunger was an agony he couldn't escape, warmth his only solace. There was a rhythm to it—cry, comfort, rest, repeat. The world was still blurred, voices too loud or too distant, but he was learning.
There were moments when he was left alone, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by silence. Those times were the worst. It was in those quiet moments that his mind raced, tried to make sense of the impossible. Was he the only one? Was he some outlier in the grand design of the universe?
And if he was, why?
Time crawled forward. He became stronger, little by little. His fingers moved with intent, his limbs no longer just useless appendages. He could turn his head, track movement, recognize the familiar warmth of the one who always held him close. She smelled of comfort, of something safe. The man was different—heavier, sharper, a presence that loomed more than lingered.
One day, a new voice entered the home. Firm, professional.
"Mr. Grace," the voice greeted. "The postnatal checkup should be quick. Just routine."
A low hum of acknowledgment, then the sound of footsteps.
"Everything is progressing well," the doctor continued. "Strong vitals, good response time. Has he shown any signs of early development?"
A pause. Then, a measured response. "Not yet."
A shift, and suddenly he was lifted, inspected again under watchful eyes. He recognized the way the grip changed, the difference in the way he was handled. He was being evaluated. Tested.
He remained still, barely reacting. Something deep inside told him that movement, any movement, could mean something more than just simple progress.
"He's strong," the man said after a moment. It wasn't approval, but it also wasn't disappointment.
Another pause. Then, quieter—
"Good."
The doctor nodded. "I'll schedule the next appointment in a few months. Let me know if anything changes."
The door closed, and he was alone with them again.
____________________♛_____________________
The world continued to shift. The boy—the older one—was a constant presence. Loud, excited, always moving. Always watching. He didn't know what to make of him yet, but he learned quickly that his presence meant movement, action. A shift in energy.
The woman scolded gently. "Be careful. He's still small."
The boy huffed. "When can he play?"
"Not for a long time."
"That's boring."
Laughter. Soft. Familiar. "You were the same way."
He didn't understand all the words, but the tone was enough. The older one was impatient, restless. He would have to keep an eye on him.
____________________♛_____________________
He could feel it now. The difference. The strength under his skin, the way his body wasn't like the others. He still couldn't sit up on his own, but he felt the energy thrumming beneath his bones, waiting. It was a terrifying realization. He had been given something unnatural.
What if they found out? What if they saw it before he understood it himself?
That night, as he was held close, the rhythmic heartbeat lulling him to sleep, he realized something.
This wasn't just a second chance.
It was a test.
And he wasn't sure if he would survive it.