The steady beep of the heart monitor had become Alex's metronome, counting down the rhythm of his remaining days. At thirty years old, he'd thought he had decades ahead of him—time to propose to Mia, time to build the life they'd whispered about in the dark hours of the morning, time to simply exist. Instead, he was here, in this sterile hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and quiet desperation, watching the numbers on various screens tick up and down like some cruel slot machine that never paid out.
The cancer had come out of nowhere. Stage four, they'd said, as if slapping a number on it made it more manageable, more real. But it didn't. Nothing about this felt real. Alex had done everything right—he'd eaten his vegetables, kept regular sleep schedules despite the demanding nature of his work as a developer, hit the gym three times a week without fail. He'd been the guy who meal-prepped on Sundays and drank green smoothies that tasted like grass clippings. And for what? So he could end up here, his body betraying him in the most fundamental way possible?
He turned his head slightly, ignoring the dull ache that had become his constant companion, to look at Mia. She was curled up in the chair beside his bed, her dark hair falling across her face, one hand stretched out as if even in sleep she needed to maintain that connection with him. She'd been here for three days straight, only leaving when the nurses practically forced her to go home and shower. The engagement ring he'd bought six months ago sat in his apartment, hidden in a sock drawer like some sort of cosmic joke. He'd been waiting for the perfect moment, the right sunset, the ideal restaurant. How stupid that seemed now. How utterly, devastatingly stupid.
Alex closed his eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling at him, but his mind wouldn't stop racing. He didn't believe in God—never had, even when his grandmother had dragged him to church as a kid—but just in case, just on the off chance that there was some bearded figure sitting on a cloud somewhere pulling the strings, Alex raised his hand and extended his middle finger toward the ceiling. It was a petty gesture, childish even, but it was all he had left.
"Why me?" he whispered into the darkness behind his eyelids. The question had been eating at him for weeks, gnawing at the edges of his sanity. He'd been good. Not perfect, but good. He'd helped elderly neighbors with their groceries, contributed to charities, never kicked a dog or cheated on his taxes. He'd loved Mia with everything he had. And this was his reward?
The thought of reincarnation had been circling his mind lately, a desperate life raft in an ocean of despair. He didn't know if he believed in it any more than he believed in God, but the idea that maybe, just maybe, he might get another shot—that somewhere, in some other life, he might find Mia again—was the only thing keeping him from completely losing it. It was probably foolish, probably the morphine talking, but he clung to it anyway.
He hated fate. Hated the arbitrary cruelty of the universe. Hated that he'd spent his whole life working toward something—a future, a family, a life with the woman he loved—only to have it snatched away before he'd even really begun. All he'd wanted was peace. A quiet life. Morning coffee on the balcony, lazy Sunday afternoons, growing old together. Was that too much to ask?
The anger burned through him, hot and useless, and then faded into the familiar numbness. He was so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of pretending to be strong for Mia when she woke up, tired of the sympathetic looks from nurses who'd seen this story play out a thousand times before. His eyelids grew heavier, the beeping of the monitor seeming to come from further and further away.
Sleep took him slowly, pulling him down into darkness.
And then there was light.
At first, Alex thought it was just a dream—the kind of cliché near-death experience people always talked about. The tunnel, the light at the end, the whole nine yards. He felt himself moving toward it, or maybe it was moving toward him, he couldn't tell. The light grew brighter, more encompassing, until it swallowed him whole.
And then everything changed.
The first sensation was cold air hitting his skin, followed immediately by an overwhelming urge to scream. And scream he did, though the sound that came out wasn't his voice—it was higher, thinner, the cry of an infant. Panic seized him. What the hell was happening? He tried to move his arms, his legs, but they wouldn't respond the way they should. Everything felt wrong, too small, too weak.
Hands lifted him—large, warm hands—and he felt himself being passed to someone else. He forced his eyes open, though they felt heavy and unfocused, and the world swam in a blur of shapes and colors he couldn't quite make sense of.
"A boy," a woman's voice said, breathless and exhausted. "Marcus, we have a son."
A man's voice responded, thick with emotion. "He's perfect, Elara. Absolutely perfect."
Alex's infant brain struggled to process what was happening. These weren't the fluorescent lights of the hospital. This wasn't the steady beep of monitors or the antiseptic smell that had become his prison. He was being held against someone's chest, could feel the warmth of skin and the rapid beating of a heart. His mother's heart, some distant part of his mind supplied, though that made no sense at all.
He managed to turn his head, his vision still frustratingly blurry, and caught sight of the room around him. Even through his unfocused eyes, he could tell this wasn't any hospital he'd ever seen. The walls looked like stone, covered with rich tapestries. Candles provided flickering light, and the bed his mother lay in was massive, with heavy wooden posts and curtains that looked like something out of a medieval movie set.
But it was what happened next that truly shattered any remaining doubt about where—or rather, when—he was.
A figure approached the bed, an older man with gray hair and kind eyes. He wore robes that looked vaguely ceremonial, though not like any religious garment Alex recognized. The man raised his hand over Alex's mother, and without a word, without any chanting or waving of wands or mystical gestures, a soft golden glow emanated from his palm.
Magic. Actual, honest-to-god magic.
Alex watched, transfixed, as the glow settled over his mother, and he could see the tension drain from her face, her breathing evening out. The man—a mage, Alex's reeling mind supplied—moved his hand in slow, deliberate motions, and wherever the light touched, it seemed to ease pain and accelerate healing. There were no runes appearing in the air, no dramatic incantations or magical circles. Just quiet, efficient magic, as natural as breathing.
"There," the mage said, lowering his hand. "The worst of it is healed. You'll be tender for a few days, but nothing more serious than that. Rest now, Lady Elara."
"Thank you, Theron," the woman holding Alex said. Her voice was soft, melodic, and utterly exhausted. "We're blessed to have you as a friend."
Alex's mind was racing, trying to piece together what had happened. The hospital, the cancer, the certainty of death—and now this. A medieval-looking room. Magic. A new body. This couldn't be real. It had to be some sort of morphine-induced hallucination in his final moments. But it felt real. The weight of his new body, the warmth of his mother's arms, the sound of voices speaking English—actual English—it all felt viscerally, undeniably real. That was perhaps the strangest part. They were speaking his language, as naturally as if they'd always spoken it, in a world that clearly wasn't his own.
Reincarnation. The word echoed in his mind. He'd wished for it, hadn't he? Lying in that hospital bed, he'd hoped for another chance, another life. But he'd meant with Mia, in their world, not... whatever this was.
"Let me see him," the man's voice said—Marcus, his father apparently. Alex felt himself being carefully transferred again, and this time when he managed to focus his eyes, he got his first clear look at the man holding him.
Marcus was tall, even from this perspective, with broad shoulders that spoke of strength. His black hair was slightly disheveled, probably from worry, and when he looked down at Alex, it was with eyes the color of fresh blood—deep, striking red that should have been frightening but somehow wasn't. There was such tenderness in that gaze, such overwhelming love, that Alex felt something in his chest twist painfully.
"Hello, little one," Marcus said softly. "Welcome to the world. Your mother and I will give you everything, I promise you that."
Alex was passed back to his mother, and this time he got a good look at her too. Elara was beautiful in an otherworldly way, with pale skin that seemed to glow in the candlelight and white hair that spread across the pillow like fresh snow. Her eyes, when they met his, were the green of spring leaves, bright and full of wonder.
"Oryth," she murmured, tracing a finger down his small face. "We'll call you Oryth. Do you like that name, my darling boy?"
Oryth. Not Alex. A new name for a new life, in a world that operated on rules he didn't understand, with magic and medieval nobility and god knew what else waiting beyond these stone walls. He was an infant, completely helpless, dependent on these strangers who were now his parents. The enormity of it crashed over him, and he wanted to cry—not the instinctive wailing of a newborn, but the desperate, grief-stricken sobbing of a man who'd lost everything.
Mia. The name echoed in his mind, and with it came the crushing realization of what his death—and apparent rebirth—meant. She would wake up in that hospital room to find him gone. Cold. Dead. The man she'd loved, the future they'd planned, all of it erased in a moment. She would grieve. She would blame herself, probably, for falling asleep, for not being there in his final moments. She would find the ring eventually, when someone cleaned out his apartment, and she would know he'd meant to propose, and that knowledge would hurt even more.
The thought broke something in him, this new, fragile version of himself. He couldn't cry the way he wanted to, couldn't scream or rage or beg the universe for a different outcome. All he could do was lie in his new mother's arms and feel the weight of two lifetimes pressing down on him.
But even as the grief threatened to overwhelm him, a spark of determination flickered to life. He'd been given another chance, however impossible, however unwanted. This world had magic—real, tangible magic. If he'd been reincarnated once, then maybe, just maybe, there were other impossible things that could be made possible. Other worlds that could be reached. Other lives that could intersect with his again.
As Elara cooed softly to him and Marcus stood watch over them both, as the mage Theron quietly took his leave and the room settled into peaceful quiet, Oryth—who had been Alex, who was still Alex somewhere deep inside—made himself a promise.
He would learn everything he could about this world. He would master its magic, understand its laws, unlock its secrets. He would grow strong, smarter, more capable than he'd ever been in his first life. And somehow, some way, he would find a path back to Mia. He would see her face again. He would apologize for leaving her alone in that hospital room, for not being strong enough to hold on, for all the things he'd never said when he had the chance.
It was an impossible goal. Insane, probably. But it was all he had.
The exhaustion of being born—because apparently that was a thing he'd just experienced—began to pull at him again, and Oryth felt his new infant body demanding rest. As consciousness faded, he held onto that promise like a lifeline, letting it anchor him against the terror and grief and overwhelming strangeness of everything that had happened.
*I'll find you again, Mia*, he thought as sleep claimed him. *I swear it. No matter how long it takes, no matter what I have to do. I'll find a way back to you. Just wait for me.*
And in the quiet of the noble room, in a world of magic and mystery, a new life began—built on the ashes of the old, and driven by a love that refused to die.