Warmth. That's the first thing I feel. Not the sharp cold of hospital sheets. Not the emptiness of being forgotten. Real, living warmth—soft and overwhelming, like being wrapped in a sunlit blanket.
My eyes sting. Everything is too bright, too loud, too fast. I try to breathe, but my lungs scream. My throat burns. Something primal takes over. I cry. A sound—high, sharp, raw—tears through the air.
What is this? What's happening to me...?
The world feels... wrong. No. Not wrong. New. My limbs are short. My voice isn't mine. My body—it's small. Helpless. I'm a newborn.
My head spins. I want to scream, not from pain, but from the flood of emotions crashing into me like waves.
Then, something holds me. Large, calloused hands. Gentle, but strong. And then—a voice. Deep. Solid. Like rolling thunder softened by age.
"He has his mother's eyes... but that fire in his cry... that's mine."
I don't understand the words—not yet. But the tone is clear. Pride. Someone's... proud of me?
I'm passed into another set of arms—smaller, smoother. Warmer. My cheek touches fabric soaked in the scent of herbs and steel. Then I hear it—her voice. Soft. Clear. Unshakable.
"Welcome home, my son."
My breath hitches. My heartbeat stutters. Tears blur my vision—not from pain, but from something deeper. Something I don't remember ever feeling in my last life.
Love.
I... I'm really born again. And this time... I'm wanted.