He was lying in a bed. A narrow bed with rough wool blankets. The ceiling above him was made of wooden beams with visible gaps he could clearly see through. Sunlight streamed through a small window by the side, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air.
Where am I?
He sat up quickly, and immediately, his head spun as he remembered what had happened and why he was here. A dissonance immediately followed. His mind struggled with the sudden change from a larger adult form, to this small, weaker one…
Finn looked down at his hands, at how much smaller they were even for a child… or a teenager? He didn't know.
Then suddenly, as if that thought was the trigger, memories flooded in.
Someone else's memories.
Memories of this room. Of the family downstairs. Of the village beyond the window. Of a life that wasn't his but felt increasingly real with each passing second.
