Black.
Everything was black.
No pain, no light, no noise—just silence, endless and suffocating.
I'm tired…
When will this nothingness end?
Then, as if in answer, a subtle warmth brushed against his skin—gentle, almost like a whisper. With it came sensation: a flutter of panic, a strange ache, a sorrow that pulled deep in his chest. His soul stirred, like it had just been pulled from deep water.
What… is happening?
His limbs twitched. He could move. Slowly, carefully, he flexed his fingers—and froze. They felt… small.
Blinking, the darkness gave way to a soft blur of color. Shapes emerged: walls, a ceiling, the faint outline of furniture. He was in a room.
His heart raced.
He touched his head—it ached faintly—but when he looked at his hands again, the realization struck: a child's hands. Small, fragile.
A… child?
He sat up unsteadily, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. Pale blue pajamas. Toys lined the shelves. A mobile spun gently above his bed. Everything screamed child.
A mirror on the wardrobe caught his reflection. He staggered toward it, hands trembling.
A small boy stared back. Messy black hair, dark brown eyes that seemed far too sharp, pale skin. Fragile. Breakable.
Tears welled up.
Who am I now? Why does this feel… familiar?
Footsteps approached. The door creaked open, and a woman appeared—early thirties, hair pulled back, eyes wide with concern.
"Oh, my baby! Wyxro, what's wrong?" she cried, rushing forward.
Wyxro?
The warmth of her embrace was real. Comforting. Heartbreakingly familiar. And yet… he had no memory of her.
His body was weak, feverish even. Confusion pressed in. The name—Wyxro—echoed inside him, stirring something he couldn't place.
Darkness crept back as dizziness overtook him.
---
When he opened his eyes again, sunlight filtered through the curtains. The haze had lifted slightly. He sat up slowly, absorbing the room, the small body, the strangeness.
Alive. A child. Someone new. And yet… not new.
This wasn't the first time he had lived. He couldn't remember how, or who he once was, but the feeling was undeniable. As if his soul carried the weight of forgotten roads, unseen choices, and years he could no longer name.
He gazed at the mirror again. The boy—Wyxro—looked back. Strange, foreign… yet natural.
A photo on the table caught his eye: a smiling family—mother, father, the boy he now was, and a pregnant woman. Warm. Whole. Safe.
Still, unease coiled in his chest. The world around him felt slightly twisted. Familiar, yet off. Like a melody played just a note too sharp.
Questions stirred, but no answers came.
Instead, a quiet resolve settled over him.
"I'll live properly this time," he whispered, small but steady. "I'll make it count."
The reflection in the mirror stared back—uncertain, but ready.