I stumbled onto the floor as my vision blurred, the world around me spinning like a storm-tossed ship.
My body fragile, trembling felt like it could collapse at any moment.
I blinked, trying to steady myself. My gaze dropped to my hands.
Small.
Soft.
Tiny.
What the hell?
Panic surged in my chest. I turned my palms over, flexing delicate fingers that couldn't have belonged to me. Where are the callouses? The scars? The blood?
I looked around, heart pounding in my ears. Dust covered everything—rotting wood, rusted furniture, torn curtains swaying gently in the breeze of a broken window. A cold draft slithered across the floorboards. This place was old. Abandoned.
Am I in a house?
I tried to stand, but my legs crumpled beneath me. My stomach growled— oud, hollow, painful. It felt like I hadn't eaten in days. My limbs were thin, frail, malnourished.
Whoever this kid was before I woke up… they were starving.
Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to sit up. Breathing heavily, I leaned back against the nearest wall and tried to focus.
I remembered… the battlefield. Smoke, gunfire, screams. The smell of blood and burning flesh.
Then nothing.
Until now.
I clenched my tiny fists, rage simmering under the confusion.
"I died," I muttered, my voice soft and higher-pitched than I remembered. "And now... I'm a child?"
No. Not just a child. Reborn.
My eyes scanned the room again, this time with purpose. Survival instincts kicked in—the same ones that kept me alive for years in hellish war zones. I needed food. Water. Shelter. Weapons, if possible.
I braced my hand against the wall and dragged myself to my feet again, legs shaking beneath the weight of my own body. The wooden floor creaked with every step, dust rising with each hesitant movement.
Kitchen. There has to be a kitchen.
I hobbled down the short hallway, each doorway revealing more decay—collapsed beams, shattered glass, mold-blackened walls. This house had long since been forgotten by time.
But it was still standing. And I was still breathing.
Finally, I spotted it—a doorway that opened into a small, crumbling kitchen. The tiles were cracked and yellowed, the sink rusted. Cupboards hung open or broken off their hinges. The scent of mildew and rot clung to everything.
I stumbled toward the cabinets, driven by a primal need. Hunger clawed at my insides, making my hands shake as I pried open the first door.
Nothing. Just broken glass and an empty jar.
I moved to the next one. Same story.
Again and again I searched bare shelves, dead insects, rat droppings. Nothing edible. Nothing useful.
The refrigerator was nothing more than a rusted shell. I opened it anyway, half-hoping for a miracle.
The stench hit me like a punch to the face.
I gagged, coughing and reeling back, slamming the door shut before bile could rise any higher in my throat. Stupid, I scolded myself. Stupid.
There was no food here. This place had been abandoned for years, maybe decades. No one had been here to stock anything, clean anything… care about anything.
Except someone left it standing. Someone left me here.
Why?
I didn't have answers—only a tightening knot in my stomach and a rising panic I hadn't felt since my first firefight. Not knowing the enemy. Not knowing the terrain. Not knowing anything.
But I still had one advantage.
I knew how to survive.
Weapons. If there was no food, I needed something to defend myself with. I opened the last cupboard near the sink old cleaning supplies, all dry and useless. But at the bottom, barely visible behind a fallen cutting board, was the glint of metal.
A knife.
I reached down and pulled it free.
It wasn't much. Just a dull kitchen knife with a cracked wooden handle and a rusted edge. But it was better than nothing.
It was something.
My fingers wrapped around the hilt instinctively, a strange comfort washing over me. Even in this fragile body, even in this fragile world, the weight of a blade in hand still grounded me.
I glanced at my reflection in the broken window.
The boy who stared back was pale and thin, maybe 9 or 10 years old. Messy dark hair hung just above wide, sunken eyes. Hollow cheeks. My expression looked both too young and too haunted.
I didn't know him.
But I was him now.
"I need to move," I whispered, as if saying it aloud would give my legs strength.
I slipped the knife into the waistband of my pants—too big, barely hanging on my hips—and carefully made my way back into the hallway. The air was colder now, or maybe I was just more aware of it. My bare feet made no sound on the floorboards.
This place… wasn't right.
Not just because it was abandoned, but because of how abandoned it felt. Like it was deliberately left behind. Forgotten. Hidden.
And that raised a more dangerous question: Was I meant to be found?
Or left here to die?
A sound broke the silence—a faint rustle, just outside the window.
I turned sharply, every nerve on edge, knife instinctively raised.
A shadow moved past the broken glass—something with wings. I stepped closer and squinted through the grime-streaked pane.
What the hell?
A bird.
But not like any I'd seen before.
It was large, almost too large, with piercing amber eyes and snow-white feathers. Perched on the window ledge like it belonged there. And clutched tightly in its beak—two envelopes, thick and wax-sealed.
I stared at it.
It stared back.
Its wings flapped once, slow and deliberate, ruffling dust from the ledge.
I narrowed my eyes. "What are you?"
No answer. Obviously.
Still, something about that stare put me on edge. Like it was waiting for something. Judging me. Analyzing me.
I didn't like that.
Without breaking eye contact, I made my way to the door, pushing it open with my shoulder. The hinges shrieked, and cold air rushed in. I stepped outside onto the brittle grass, my feet aching against the cold-covered ground.
The bird was still there—perched on a rusted fence post now, head tilted sideways, watching me with unnerving intelligence.
The letters were still in its beak.
I walked slowly, crouched low like I would stalking prey.
The bird didn't fly away.
It should've flown away.
I stopped a few feet away, muscles tense.
I took a deep breath, adjusted my grip on the knife, and flung it with everything I had—barely the strength of a ten-year-old, but desperation makes up for a lot.
The blade struck true.
The bird let out a shriek of pain, wings flapping violently as it tumbled from the windowsill. The letters fell to the ground, fluttering like wounded leaves.
But I wasn't finished.
I lunged forward, collapsing onto the struggling bird. Its talons scratched my arm, drawing blood, but I didn't feel it. I yanked the knife free and began stabbing—over and over, my movements clumsy, fueled by survival instinct and a twisted kind of joy.
Food. Finally. Real food.
I didn't stop until the flapping ceased.
My chest rose and fell with ragged, uneven breaths. My tiny hands trembled, blood staining the handle of the knife, slick and warm. The bird lay still beneath me, a heap of feathers and gore.
I dropped the blade.
My knees gave out, and I collapsed beside the corpse.
My vision blurred again, black spots creeping into the edges. My whole body screamed in protest—too weak, too cold, too empty.
I had food now.
But I still had to cook it.
"Just… a little longer…" I wheezed, forcing myself back onto unsteady feet. I gathered the limp bird and the letters in my arms and staggered back inside
The kitchen was just as broken and lifeless as before, but it didn't matter. I was a soldier—I'd eaten worse than bird, and cooked with less than a rusted stove.
I laid the bird on the counter and scanned the room. There had to be a fire source. Something. Anything.
My eyes locked onto the rusted oven. Old, dead. But still potentially usable.
I opened the small cabinet beneath it and found an old box of matches, damp but not ruined. I struck one.
Nothing.
Second try—spark.
I held my breath.
Flick.
A tiny flame bloomed.
My smile was savage.
I scavenged what I could—broken chairs, splintered wood, scraps of rotted furniture, and torn pages from a book I didn't recognize. Finally, I grabbed the letters the bird had dropped, barely sparing them a glance. Some fancy wax seal stamped with a crest—four creatures circling a big letter H.
Hogwarts?
Never heard of it.
Didn't matter. If it wasn't food, water, or fire, it could wait.
I dragged everything into the rusted oven and built a tiny fire, feeding it slowly. My hands trembled as I worked, half from hunger, half from exhaustion, but I didn't stop. I couldn't afford to. Flame caught on the paper, licked at the dry wood, and soon, warm light flickered across the ruined kitchen.
Then I turned my attention to the bird.
The scent of iron and feathers hit me hard—sharp and wet, clinging to the air like smoke. My stomach twisted, but I forced the nausea down. Skinning, gutting, cleaning… it all came back to me, even in this small, unfamiliar body. My hands moved on instinct. I'd done worse in worse places. A dead bird was nothing.
By the time the first strip of meat sizzled in a battered old pan, I was salivating like a starved animal. It didn't matter that the pan was dented or barely usable. It didn't matter that I had no seasoning, no oil, not even a damn fork.
I didn't care if it was raw in the middle or charred to ash.
It was food.
When it was barely cooked through, I tore into it with my bare hands. Hot juices burned my fingers, but I didn't stop. Greasy, stringy, overcooked on one side and raw on the other—it was still the best thing I'd tasted in what felt like an eternity.
Tears welled in my eyes as I chewed, swallowed, devoured.
Not because it was delicious.
Because I was alive.
The pain in my stomach dulled slightly with each bite, the gnawing emptiness retreating like a beaten dog. My hands were shaking less now. My breath still ragged, but stronger. The weakness hadn't vanished, but it no longer held me by the throat.
When I finally leaned back against the wall, grease on my face, blood on my hands, I exhaled a long, shaky breath.
No fanfare. No angels. No warm light of peace.
Just a dead bird, a warm fire, and the bitter taste of survival.
But I was still breathing.