He woke to the sound of birds.
Soft trills filtered through the thin window shutters, carried by a breeze that smelled faintly of soil and morning dew.
When he opened his eyes, the ceiling above him was wooden, uneven, and painted in the pale glow of sunrise.
He breathed once, slow and steady.
His hands were smaller—childlike. His legs shorter beneath the blanket.
The air itself felt different, thinner, and fresh.
Somewhere outside, he heard a rooster's distant cry, the creak of a well being drawn, and quiet footsteps.
The door slid open.
A woman stepped in, weary but gentle in manner, her hair tied back in a loose braid. She blinked in brief surprise.
"Alaric, you're awake already? You must be hungry."
He sat up without a word. She crossed the room and pressed her palm to his forehead, checking for a fever. Her touch was warm.
"Still quiet, hm?" she murmured, fond rather than concerned. "Come. Breakfast is ready."
He followed her out.
The home was small—two rooms and a short hall. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light. A kettle whistled over a clay stove.
At the table sat a man with broad shoulders and kind, tired eyes. Between them was a girl, no older than four, her small feet swinging beneath her stool.
His sister.
She brightened the moment she saw him. "Big brother! Sit next to me!"
He took the empty seat. The woman—his adoptive mother—placed bowls of porridge in front of them.
"Today's weather is good," the father said. "We'll fix the southern fence after breakfast."
The boy nodded.
He lifted his spoon.
'Peace,' he thought, as he tasted the porridge.
And so he accepted it, as he had the life before.
***
Time began to pass, gently and without resistance.
He grew with the village.
At seven, he repaired a broken bucket handle by wedging a flat stone and tightening frayed rope in the correct angle. The adults watched him in confusion.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" one farmer asked.
"I… don't know," he replied honestly. "It made sense."
At ten, he found his sister crying by the riverbank after dropping her wooden toy into the water.
He stepped onto the slippery stones, reached into the cold stream, and retrieved it without hesitation.
"Don't tell mother," she sniffled.
"I won't."
At twelve, he tracked a lost goat through the forest by observing bent grass and fresh droppings. The elder who followed him whispered to another villager,
"That boy's instincts… are unnatural, but in a good way. Sharp as a blade."
At fifteen, he lifted his sister onto his shoulders so she could pick apples from the high branches, her laughter echoing through the orchard.
"You're too tall!" she complained.
"You're too heavy," he said, without a hint of strain.
At sixteen, he began to feel something else—something that didn't belong to this peaceful place. A faint pressure in the air that would prick the back of his neck without warning.
He never mentioned it.
***
Seasons turned.
Harvests rose and fell.
Life, for a time, was kind.
When he reached seventeen, the villagers finally began to speak of him as a dependable young man.
Someone who could mend fences, carry timber, negotiate petty arguments, or escort travelers on forest paths without losing his way.
His sister adored him. She followed him everywhere—into the fields, to the creek, even to the edge of the forest where the sunlight dimmed beneath thick canopies.
"Stay close," he always told her.
"I am!"
Her small hand gripping the hem of his shirt was the one warmth he knew he would miss if ever taken away.
***
That morning, nothing seemed different at first.
He helped his father secure a crooked post in the southern fence. His sister played nearby, drawing shapes in the dirt with a stick. Birds fluttered overhead. The wind stirred the grass in repetitive waves.
Yet there was an unsettling stillness beneath it all.
He paused mid-swing of his hammer.
The air felt heavy again.
His father noticed. "Something wrong?"
"No," he said automatically. "Just listening."
He finished the repairs. His sister tugged his sleeve.
"Alaric? Can we get wild berries today?"
"Later," he answered.
He watched the treeline longer than usual.
Something wasn't right.
***
In the late afternoon, he went alone to check the rabbit traps near the woods.
The sun dipped low behind the mountains, painting the sky orange. Fallen leaves crackled under his steps.
The smell reached him first.
Something metallic and sharp, almost clean in its wrongness.
He followed it.
A few meters into the underbrush, he found the body.
A grown man. Face frozen in an expression of silent terror, eyes wide as though pleading with someone unseen. Limbs arranged too neatly, too deliberately. Clothing torn only at the chest.
A small symbol had been carved into the skin beneath the collarbone. It was circular, precise, and almost ceremonial in nature.
He crouched beside the corpse.
There were no animal tracks, nor any drag marks or blood.
No sign of struggle.
Only that same strange, lingering pressure in the air. Familiar in a distant, unpleasant way.
He felt his heartbeat slow, not quicken.
The way it did in the Backrooms.
He studied the symbol more closely. It was deliberate and recent.
He rose and scanned the forest.
Branches swayed, though the wind had stopped.
Somewhere deeper within the trees, he heard a faint sound—like breath drawn through clenched teeth.
Or someone whispering.
He turned.
Nothing.
Someone was watching. He was certain.
His stomach tightened in recognition. This was a pattern repeating itself across lives.
He exhaled slowly.
"This village…" he murmured, voice nearly lost in the leaves.
'…is in danger.'
He stepped back toward the path.
The corpse lay motionless behind him, eyes fixed on the sky.
He began to walk, deliberately faster this time.
The sun was setting.