Chapter 2: Tiny Steps, Big Memories
Stratford, Ontario – March 1995 to December 1998
(Ages 1 to 4 years old)
The first year was the weirdest. Being a baby again after thirty-two years of adult bullshit felt like wearing a straightjacket made of diapers and drool. I couldn't talk yet, couldn't walk properly, couldn't even roll over without effort. But my mind? Sharp as ever. I remembered Chicago winters, warehouse shifts, the smell of exhaust on rainy nights. Now I was this tiny thing with sapphire-blue eyes staring up at fluorescent hospital lights, then apartment ceilings, then the cracked paint in Pattie's little place on the edge of Stratford.
We didn't live in some fancy house. From what I pieced together later—through adult memories and the system's quiet info drops—it was low-income housing, probably one of those red-brick bungalows or cramped apartments downtown. Pattie was nineteen now, working whatever office gigs she could find: filing papers, answering phones, whatever paid the bills. She was exhausted a lot. Dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, but she'd still sing to me while changing diapers or heating up formula. Old hymns mostly, sometimes bits of whatever was on the radio—Backstreet Boys previews or Celine Dion ballads. Her voice was soft, a little shaky, but warm. It made the tiny body relax even when my adult brain was screaming, *This is insane. I'm in a onesie.*
The system helped keep me sane. It didn't nag; it was more like a patient voice in my head, popping up when I needed it.
[Life Guidance System – Daily Log: Age 1 Year, 2 Months]
Milestone Progress: Crawling unlocked at 8 months (accelerated via motor skill boost).
New Mission: "First Words" – Reward: Vocal Warm-Up Pack (pitch exercises, breath control basics).
Tip: Babble naturally. Mimic sounds around you. Avoid complex sentences—suspicion risk high.
I took that seriously. No point blowing the cover by saying "Pass the remote" at six months. So I did what real toddlers do: goo-goo, ga-ga, point at stuff, cry when hungry. But inside, I practiced. When Pattie hummed "Amazing Grace," I'd try to match the notes in my head. The perfect pitch passive kicked in hard—every off-key note from the radio grated like nails on chalkboard, but it also let me hear the exact intervals. By my first birthday (March 1, 1995), I was cooing along to her songs, hitting the melody dead-on. Pattie laughed, called me her "little songbird." Neighbors probably thought it was cute coincidence.
Jeremy showed up sometimes. He was young too—maybe twenty by then—still figuring out life. He'd come over awkward, smelling like motor oil from whatever job he had, scoop me up, bounce me on his knee. "Hey, little man," he'd say. I remembered the original timeline: he wasn't around much later, but he tried early on. I let myself bond a bit—tiny hands grabbing his shirt, real baby giggles (which felt embarrassing but necessary). The system flagged him neutral: **"Paternal figure – Low exploitation risk. Maintain contact for emotional stability."**
By age two (1996), walking happened. I wobbled like any kid—fell on my butt a dozen times on the linoleum floor—but the physical optimization made balance come quicker. I didn't sprint; I toddled, explored the small apartment like it was a new world. Toys were cheap: plastic blocks, a stuffed bear with one eye missing, a little keyboard Pattie found at a garage sale. I'd bang on that thing for hours. Not random noise—simple rhythms. Boom-boom-pause-boom. The system loved it.
[Mission Complete: "Rhythm Foundation" – Reward: Basic Drum Patterns Unlocked. Skill Tree Progress: Music Mastery +5%.]
Alert: Caregiver fatigue detected. Recommendation: Naptime cuddles to build attachment.
Pattie would nap with me sometimes. She'd curl up on the couch, me on her chest, both of us out. Those moments hit hard. Real human stuff—no system could fake that warmth, that feeling of being small and safe. I cried real tears once, not from hunger, but because I remembered my old mom back in Chicago, how I never called enough. Guilt doesn't go away with reincarnation.
Age three (1997) brought the real sparks. Stratford winters are brutal—snow up to your knees, wind off Lake Huron that cuts through jackets. We'd bundle up, walk to the park or her mom's house (Diane, my grandma in this life). Diane was tough, French-Canadian roots, big family vibes. She'd babysit when Pattie worked late. At her place, there was an old piano in the corner. I'd toddle over, climb the bench (with help), and poke keys. Not masterpieces—just finding middle C, then trying scales. Diane laughed: "Kid's got ears like his mom."
The system dropped tutorials: mental simulations where I'd "play" full songs in my head—Beatles chords, simple pop progressions. In real life, I'd mimic. One day I plunked out the opening to "Yesterday" on one hand. Pattie froze. "How'd you do that, baby?" I just grinned, drool on my chin, and babbled "piano!" like any three-year-old proud of himself.
Dancing started around then too. Radio on in the kitchen, Pattie swaying while making Kraft Dinner. I'd copy her—spin, bounce, wave arms. Not pro-level; toddler clumsy. But the athletic conditioning passive made my coordination sharp. I'd watch MTV when she let me (rare—mostly cartoons), see Michael Jackson moonwalk clips. Tried it on carpet. Fell. Tried again. The system pinged: "Dance Fundamentals Mission: Imitate basic groove. Reward: Hip Isolation + Balance Boost."
I acted the part perfectly. Tantrums when tired. Demanding snacks. Hiding behind Pattie's leg when strangers talked to me. Cute as hell on the outside—those blue eyes, blond curls starting to grow out, dimples when I smiled. Inside? Calculating. *Don't talk too clear too soon. Don't read books way above level. Blend in.*
Age four (late 1998) was when music really clicked. Pattie bought a cheap drum set—second-hand, probably from a pawn shop. Tiny kit: bass pedal I could barely reach, snare that sounded tinny. I'd sit for hours, tapping along to whatever was on. System unlocked drum lessons: paradiddles, basic fills. I practiced quietly when she was out, then "discovered" them when she came home. "Look, Mommy! Drums!" Wide eyes, innocent excitement.
She cried happy tears once. "You're gonna be something special, Justin." I hugged her leg, face buried, thinking: *I know. And I'm gonna make sure it's on my terms this time.*
We were poor. Shared meals sometimes—one burger split between us. Pattie on water so I could eat. But love was thick in that little place. Church on Sundays (she was finding faith again), family dinners at Diane's, Jeremy popping in with toys he couldn't afford but bought anyway.
The system kept grinding missions:
"Social Smile" – Reward: Charisma +2%
"First Song Memorization" – Learned "Twinkle Twinkle" perfectly, then hummed harmonies.
"Emotional Regulation" – When I got frustrated (real toddler rage), it guided breathing exercises disguised as "blow out birthday candles."
No one suspected. I was just an adorable, talented kid. A little advanced maybe—picked up words fast, sang on key, danced with rhythm—but nothing freakish. Real kids vary. Some prodigies exist.
By the end of '98, turning five soon, I felt ready for the next phase. Kindergarten loomed—Jeanne Sauvé Catholic School, French immersion. More people, more eyes. But the foundation was set.
I wasn't some adult in a kid suit pulling strings. I was living it—messy, emotional, human. The reincarnation didn't erase the vulnerability; it amplified it. Every giggle, every tear, every nap on Pattie's shoulder... real.
And the darkness? Still years away. But I remembered. The system reminded me daily: **"Timeline intact. Predator flags dormant until 2007+. Prepare accordingly."**
For now, though? I was just Justin. Toddler extraordinaire. Cute, curious, naturally gifted.
And inside, a man determined not to let fame win again.
End of Chapter 2