Staring into the still water of the rinsing basin, the reflection of the red-haired, green-eyed baby – me – felt like a physical jolt, sending discordant ripples through my consciousness. Wrong. Utterly wrong. My gaze snapped instinctively upwards to Mom – Hana – as she began gently patting my back dry with a soft, absorbent cloth, her familiar, slightly off-key humming filling the steamy air. I scanned her face urgently, searching her warm brown eyes, the curve of her mouth, for any flicker of surprise, any hint that she saw the same shocking mismatch I did. Nothing. Just her usual gentle focus. I pictured Dad – Kenji – standing in the doorway after work, his dark hair, dark eyes, and sturdy features – and saw zero resemblance reflected back at me.
Where had this impossible coloring come from? Was it some cosmic dye-job, part of the reincarnation package? A one-in-a-billion genetic anomaly that defied everything I knew about heredity? Or was it a signifier, a marker of… something else entirely operating in this world? The questions buzzed frantically, like trapped hornets against the inside of my skull.
But as Hana lifted me from the tub, wrapping me snugly in a large, fluffy towel that smelled faintly of sunshine and soap, her movements were the same practiced, gentle rhythm as always. There was no hesitation, no curious glance at my hair, no comment on my eyes. Later, as she carefully dressed me in soft nightclothes, she brushed a stray wet strand of fiery red hair off my forehead with an affectionate, utterly unremarkable touch. "There," she murmured, her kind smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. "All clean and cozy, Kess."
Her absolute normalcy was a lifeline in my churning confusion. It was a balm, smoothing over the sharp edges of my internal panic. If my appearance was truly shocking, bizarre, or alien, wouldn't she react? Wouldn't Kenji have shown some sign, made some comment over the past year? But they never had. They treated me simply as Kess, their son. They fussed when I was learning to eat solid food, they celebrated my first shaky steps with beaming pride, they held me when I cried. Their love felt simple, unconditional, and seemed utterly oblivious – or perhaps, completely unconcerned – with my startlingly non-native features.
Alright. Deep breath. Even if it was just a shallow baby lungful. Analyze. Freaking out accomplished nothing. Panicking over recessive genes or cosmic weirdness when I still needed help navigating stairs was peak inefficiency. The pragmatic, slightly world-weary adult mind of Anon surfaced, imposing order. Fact: Red hair, green eyes. Fact: Parents show no concern. Hypothesis: Appearance is considered normal, or at least acceptable, in this context. Action: File away under 'Anomalies – Investigate Later'. I lacked data. I lacked mobility. I lacked the ability to even ask coherent questions yet. Worrying now was wasted energy. There would be time – years, hopefully – to unravel this later. For now, the priorities remained ruthlessly simple: learn, grow, survive, understand the immediate world. The image in the water basin was jarring, yes, a fundamental crack in my understanding. But ultimately, it felt less important, less real, than the comforting weight of Hana's hand guiding mine or the deep, rumbling sound of Kenji's rare laughter.
With that internal resolution firming like cooled steel, the frantic buzzing quieted. The mystery of my appearance didn't vanish, but it receded from the forefront, neatly compartmentalized by the surprisingly efficient mental filing system this new brain, combined with perfect recall, seemed to possess. And life, freed from that immediate anxiety, accelerated.
The next couple of years passed in a dizzying whirlwind of development. Language didn't just grow; it exploded. Aided by photographic memory capturing every word and phrase, and driven by the underlying framework of adult grammar, I surged forward. Single words blossomed into halting two-word phrases ("More milk!"), then short sentences ("Kess go outside?"), and soon, to grammatically complex questions and statements that often earned me those proud, slightly bewildered glances from my parents. "He learns so fast," Hana murmured to Kenji one evening, stroking my (still red) hair as I meticulously stacked wooden rings. "Like he already knows how words fit together." I became an echo, a relentless questioner. "Nani? Nani sore?" (What? What's that?) pointing a chubby finger at everything from Kenji's oddly resilient chisels to the strange, purple tubers Hana dug from the garden, soaking up vocabulary like a parched desert landscape drinks rain. I'd sit quietly on the floor near Kenji's workbench, the scent of wood shavings sharp in the air, listening intently as he muttered to himself, absorbing the names of tools and intricate joint techniques. I'd trail Hana through the house and into the small, thriving vegetable garden, asking about plants, chores, the weather, repeating new words until they felt less alien on my tongue.
My legs grew stronger, steadier. Walking gave way to toddling, then to enthusiastic, often reckless running. The packed earth courtyard outside our house became my domain, though my explorations frequently ended in clumsy tumbles that scraped knees and prompted comforting hugs from Hana. But each fall was followed by scrambling back up, driven by an innate persistence I recognized dimly as Anon's stubbornness repurposed. I explored the defined boundaries of our small property under Hana's watchful, though never suffocating, eye: the neat rows of vegetables pushing determinedly through the soil, the sturdy stacks of lumber Kenji kept carefully covered beneath oiled canvas, the small, weathered Shinto shrine tucked into a quiet corner, often smelling faintly of old incense and moss.
Anon's introverted legacy persisted. I was happiest in the quiet rhythm of home, observing the intricate dance of sunlight on the floor, listening to the wind sighing through the nearby trees, processing the constant stream of new information. On rare trips to the nearby market town – a bustling, noisy place filled with unfamiliar faces, loud bartering, strange smells, and overwhelming sensory input – I'd quickly become overwhelmed, clinging to Hana's hand or burying my face in Kenji's shoulder, my limited social battery drained almost instantly. But within the familiar walls of home, with Mom and Dad, I felt safe, comfortable, responsive, eagerly soaking in their affection and the steady routine of their lives. My ingrained caution manifested too – I learned to peer into shadowed spaces before crawling into them, to test the stability of a wobbly stool with a careful push before attempting to climb.
Subtle clues about the true nature of this world continued to surface, adding layers to my mental 'Anomalies' file. The astonishing resilience of simple, everyday objects – a clay pot dropped by Hana bounced rather than shattered, Kenji's favorite knife held an impossible edge despite constant use. The slightly exaggerated physical prowess that seemed commonplace – neighbors effortlessly carrying huge bundles, children leaping with surprising agility. The unfamiliar flora and fauna – birds with shimmering, iridescent plumage unlike any Earthly species darted through the branches, oddly shaped, vibrant purple root vegetables turned up in Hana's garden basket alongside familiar daikon and carrots. Nothing concrete, nothing definitive. But the collection of small oddities grew, creating a persistent background hum of wrongness, a growing certainty that this peaceful, rustic life was situated somewhere fundamentally different from the world Anon had known.
One cool evening, curled up on a floor cushion near the low table, I was deeply engrossed in fitting brightly painted wooden blocks into their corresponding holes – a simple toddler toy, yet the challenge of spatial reasoning was strangely satisfying. The oil lamp cast warm, dancing shadows on the shoji screens. Mom was mending something, her needle flashing rhythmically. Dad was speaking, his voice a low rumble, discussing plans with her. Their conversation flowed around me, mostly adult concerns about harvests, trade, and neighbors that were beyond my full comprehension, until two words, spoken with casual purpose by Kenji, snagged my attention like hooks.
"...will need to travel north for a few days next month," Kenji was saying, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration as he traced a line on a rough map spread on the table. "The merchant insists on seeing proof of passage for the timber shipment through the Mirelands. Might need to show my Hunter License to the checkpoint guards, it simplifies things considerably..."
My small hands stilled instantly above the wooden blocks. One slipped from my grasp, clattering softly onto the tatami mat, unnoticed by my parents.
Hunter License.
The phrase didn't just register; it detonated in my mind. It echoed, amplified, severing the connection to the mundane sounds of the room. It wasn't 'hunting license'. It wasn't 'tracker permit'. It was that specific, loaded, iconic term. A cornerstone concept from a fantastical world woven from ink and animation, a world I had consumed voraciously in another lifetime. My father, this quiet, hardworking carpenter or woodcutter, possessed one? Or at least, had access to one, spoke of it casually as a tool for bureaucratic hurdles?
Suddenly, the disparate pieces clicked into place with dizzying speed – the subtle physical enhancements, the resilient objects, the strange flora and fauna, Kenji's casual strength, the feeling of wrongness, and now this – Hunter License. It wasn't random coincidence. It wasn't subtle anymore. My heart began to hammer against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in my small chest, the sound roaring in my ears.
Could it be? The world tilted, the warm lamplight seeming too bright, the shadows too deep. Was this peaceful, rustic village, this second chance at life, actually situated here? In that world?