The first thing I felt was the smell of rain on earth — clean, cool, familiar.Not fire, not smoke, not ash.Just rain.
When I opened my eyes, I was standing at the base of an old hill.Mist rolled down from the trees, soft and pale, and somewhere nearby, water dripped steadily from the leaves.The world was quiet in that heavy way just before dawn.
The body I inhabited felt different — lighter, younger.The clothes were simple: a loose shirt, worn boots, calloused hands marked by honest work.No chains.No scars.But when I drew a breath, I felt a strange ache in my chest — an echo, as though this place had once belonged to me.
The sound of a bell rang from the distance — one, then another, slow and deliberate.Not a church bell.A school bell.
I turned toward the valley and saw it: a small town spread out below, roofs glistening with rain.And beyond that — the faint shape of a river, winding through the fields.Everything about it tugged at my memory, soft but persistent.
Then I saw him.
A boy, perhaps twelve, standing halfway down the path, holding a wooden cart by its handles.He looked up at me with wide, familiar eyes.
Eyes I knew.
Because they were mine.
He called up to me, his voice thin against the mist.
"Are you coming home, mister?"
The question froze me.Home.
I hadn't had one in what felt like lifetimes.
The boy smiled, small and uncertain, as though unsure if he'd done something wrong by asking.When I didn't answer, he looked down and adjusted the strap on his cart.
"It's getting dark soon," he said quietly. "You shouldn't stay out here alone."
I took a step forward."Who are you?"
He hesitated.Then, with a small shrug, said:
"They call me Eli."
The name hit like a memory striking glass.The sound of my own voice.My real name.
Not the names I had borrowed — Elias, Kael, Dorian, Adrian.But the one I had carried before the fall.
Eli.
The boy turned and began down the path toward the town.Rain pattered against the leaves, steady and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.
I followed.