Time, untethered from clocks or calendars in my infant world, continued its relentless march. I measured its passing by the slow unfurling of seasons glimpsed through the shoji screens – the vibrant greens of summer giving way to the crisp air and colourful leaves of autumn, then the hushed whites of winter snow piling softly against the house. I felt it in the subtle lengthening of my own limbs, the growing weight of my body when Dad lifted me. I was likely nearing my first year in this world, maybe a little past it. The thickest mental fog had undeniably lifted, replaced by a clearer, albeit still developing, awareness. Yet, the chasm between my internal forty-two-year-old consciousness and this clumsy, small body remained a constant, grating source of low-grade frustration. If only I could just reach that cup myself... If only I could explain I'm not crying because I'm sad, but because I'm bored!
My universe remained largely confined to the small, traditionally built house and the two suns around which my tiny planet revolved: my parents. Mom – Hana, as I'd learned her name was from hearing Dad call it – was the gentle center of my days. Her face, framed by long, straight black hair often tied back loosely with a simple cord, was usually the first I saw upon waking. Her eyes, a warm, deep brown that sometimes gave me an uncomfortable pang of remembering Anon's reflection, held an almost saintly patience. She'd patiently coax mashed vegetables into my reluctant mouth, murmuring encouragement, and clean up the inevitable messes with a sigh so soft it was barely audible. Her hands, showing the slight roughness from housework, garden tending, and perhaps mending clothes, were always impossibly gentle against my skin. Sometimes she hummed melodies I didn't recognize, simple, slightly melancholic folk tunes that filled the quiet spaces of the house.
Dad – Kenji – remained a more intermittent force, leaving as the sky lightened and returning often cloaked in the twilight, carrying the scent of pine resin, sawdust, and the sharp tang of outdoor air. His black hair was shorter than Hana's, slightly unruly, framing a face that, in repose, seemed etched with a deep seriousness. That seriousness often melted away when he looked at me or Mom, his eyes softening, the corners of his mouth lifting. He was solidly built, muscle layered practically rather than for show, confirming my earlier impressions. The effortless way he'd maneuver heavy timbers for his work or heft large sacks of rice still occasionally snagged my attention, a persistent mental itch whispering that the physics here might be subtly skewed. Like Hana, his eyes were a familiar dark brown. They were a matched set, my parents, quintessentially Japanese in appearance, fitting seamlessly into this rustic world. In the evenings, after I'd eaten, I'd sometimes see him sitting by the oil lamp, not reading scrolls as I might have vaguely expected, but examining worn tools or occasionally sketching designs onto rough paper.
My own progress felt like wading through setting concrete compared to the lightning speed of my thoughts. Movement was the first major battleground. The sheer, mind-numbing boredom of being confined to one spot, coupled with a desperate yearning for basic independence, fueled my war against gravity. Crawling began as a series of ignominious face-plants into the slightly yielding tatami mats, followed by frustrating belly-flops that produced little forward motion but plenty of drool. Mom would place a colorful wooden toy just out of reach, cooing encouragement, "Come, Kess, look! You can get it!" Inside, I'd fume. I know the mechanics! Engage core, coordinate limbs, push off! Why won't this useless body obey? Seeing a neighbor's child occasionally, moving with the thoughtless grace of infancy, would fill me with a hot surge of impatience. But the stubborn determination of Anon, the man who'd trudged to countless failed interviews, somehow translated. Grunts of effort, scraped knees, and sheer willpower eventually turned awkward lunges into a functional, if wobbly, crawl. Freedom! Or, more accurately, the freedom to explore floor-level dust bunnies and collide gently with table legs.
Walking was the next Everest to conquer. Hauling my unsteady body upright, tiny fists gripping the edge of the low table with white-knuckled intensity, feeling the entire room tilt like a ship's deck in a storm. Balance felt like a foreign concept. Kenji, after returning from work, would sometimes kneel a few feet away, his large, calloused hands outstretched, that rare, wide smile transforming his serious face. "Come on, Kess. Attaboy. Come to Daddy." Each wobbly, hesitant step felt like traversing a miles-wide chasm. Every inevitable tumble backward onto my padded backside landed like a personal insult to my adult pride. But slowly, fueled by parental cheers and my own internal refusal to remain grounded, the successes mounted. Inches turned into feet. Stability grew fractionally. Then, finally, one momentous afternoon, I launched myself into the space between Hana and Kenji, legs pumping unsteadily, arms pinwheeling for balance, and wobbled the entire distance across the mat before collapsing triumphantly into waiting arms. The sounds of their delighted laughter washed over me. Inside, a dizzying surge of pure triumph exploded – utterly disproportionate to the mundane act of walking, but incredibly potent nonetheless.
Speech developed along a similar, frustrating path. My comprehension, boosted by that unnervingly perfect recall, far outpaced my ability to produce. I soaked up Japanese like a sponge, understanding conversations, commands, stories Mom told. But forcing my infant mouth, tongue, and vocal cords to form the correct sounds felt like wrestling slippery eels. Why can't I just ask what Kenji is carving? Why can't I tell Hana the porridge is too hot? Pointing and babbling felt deeply inadequate. I listened intently as Hana patiently sounded out words: O-kaa-san. O-tou-san. Man-ma (food). I-ta-i (ouch). The drive to bridge the gap, to articulate the thoughts swirling inside, was immense.
One evening, bathed and ready for sleep, nestled in Hana's arms, I reached up towards her face, focusing all my mental energy, channeling every ounce of will into a single, desperate attempt. "Kaa... san," I managed. The syllables were thick, clumsy, barely recognizable, but they were there.
Hana froze mid-hum, her brown eyes widening in surprise, then shining with pure delight. She hugged me tightly, beaming. "Kess! You said it! You said Okaasan! Kenji, Kenji, did you hear him?"
Dad, who had been sharpening a small blade by the lamp, looked up instantly, breaking into a broad, proud smile. "I heard! Good job, Kess! Such a smart boy!"
The sheer, unadulterated joy radiating from their faces struck me with unexpected force. It wasn't just approval; it felt like sunshine after a long winter. A warmth spread through my chest, completely unrelated to my own accomplishment, a resonant echo of their happiness. It was a startlingly powerful connection, profoundly affecting in a way Anon's solitary life had rarely offered.
Life settled into a new rhythm defined by unsteady exploration on foot, determined practice of new words, and constant observation. My photographic memory proved an incredible asset, allowing me to memorize patterns, routines, and vocabulary with astonishing speed. I filed away the subtle inconsistencies of this world: the way Kenji's simple wood-axe bit deeply into logs that should have offered more resistance, the surprising weight of the water bucket Hana carried from the well without visible strain, the way small cuts or scrapes on their hands seemed to vanish almost overnight. Nothing definitive, nothing I could point to as irrefutable proof, but the cumulative effect solidified the feeling: this place, peaceful as it was, did not operate under the same rules as Earth.
Then came bath time one cool evening. Hana often bathed me in a large, steaming wooden tub, the warm water and gentle scrubbing a welcome, relaxing ritual. Tonight, as usual, she had placed a smaller, round basin of cooler water nearby for the final rinse. Steam curled gently in the air, carrying the faint scent of wood and clean water. As she hummed that soft tune and gently washed soap from my arm, I leaned forward, captivated by the way the lamp light danced on the surface of the still water in the rinsing basin.
My reflection stared back.
For a split second, my brain registered only 'baby'. Round face, plump cheeks, skin flushed pink from the warm bath. Standard infant features. Then, my eyes focused. Really focused, aided by that unnerving clarity of perception. I wasn't just seeing a baby; I was seeing the face that was supposed to be mine.
And it was profoundly wrong.
The hair, plastered wetly to the scalp, wasn't the dark black of Hana and Kenji. It wasn't the salt-and-pepper shade Anon had possessed in his final years. It was an unmistakable, startlingly bright, fiery red. And the eyes peering back at me from the reflection... they weren't the familiar, common dark brown of my parents, nor the shade I dimly recalled seeing in Anon's tired face in rain-slicked windows. They were wide, undeniably curious, and an intense, incredibly vivid shade of green. Emerald green, like polished sea glass. My skin, too, now that I truly looked, seemed paler, lacking the warmer undertones of my parents'.
I slowly reached up a chubby, wet hand, touching the damp strands of hair on my own head. In the basin, the red-haired, green-eyed baby mimicked the motion, its expression as stunned as my own felt internally. Red hair? Green eyes? In this Japanese family? In this seemingly traditional Japanese village? Where in the world had that come from? It defied genetics as I understood them. A chill, completely unrelated to the cooling bathwater, traced a path like icy fingers down my spine.
This isn't just reincarnation into a Japanese baby, the thought screamed silently. This is something else. Something fundamentally altered. Staring into those bright, utterly unfamiliar green eyes, the world seemed to tilt again, far more violently than during my first steps. Disbelief warred with the undeniable reality reflected in the water. A single, overwhelming question hammered through the shock, echoing in the sudden, ringing silence of my mind:
Who am I?