Several months passed.
Time moved differently now—measured not in deadlines or clocks, but in small milestones and repeated routines.
Ceadar was eight months old.
And just a few days ago, he had learned how to walk.
It had been clumsy at first. Wobbly steps. Sudden tumbles. A lot of startled gasps followed by laughter. But the moment he'd taken those first unsteady steps on his own, the entire house had erupted.
His mother had clasped her hands to her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.
His father had laughed out loud, pride clear in his voice as he called his name again and again.
His older sister had bounced in place, cheering like it was the greatest achievement in the world.
Ceadar remembered it all clearly.
Too clearly.
Now, he padded slowly across the wooden floor, tiny feet slapping softly as he moved from one end of the room to the other. His arms lifted instinctively for balance as he concentrated on each step.
It's been several months of doing basically nothing, he thought, mildly exasperated. Feeding on milk, sleeping, and crying for reasons I don't even understand half the time.
He paused, steadying himself against the edge of a low table.
I hate making them worry, he continued inwardly. But I've gotta act natural. If I start doing anything strange, they'll definitely notice.
His gaze shifted toward the doorway, where his mother stood watching him with quiet amusement, ready to rush over at the slightest sign of a fall.
Still… he admitted reluctantly, the milk's been surprisingly good.
That thought made him cringe internally.
I can't believe I just thought that.
He pushed off the table and continued walking, slow and careful, taking in his surroundings. The house felt familiar now—warm, modest, filled with soft noises and the comforting presence of people who cared for him without question.
This life was different.
Slower.
Smaller.
But… safe.
As he toddled forward, his sister suddenly crouched down in front of him, grinning.
"Ceadar!" she called softly. "Come here!"
He stopped, staring at her face—too close, too big, yet undeniably kind.
Guess this is my life now, he thought, taking another careful step toward her. At least for a while.
And for the first time since his rebirth, the thought didn't feel so heavy.
Over the past several months, Ceadar thought, I've learned quite a lot about this place.
The first—and most obvious—thing was that this wasn't the same planet he'd lived on before. The sky looked different. The language sounded different. Even the way people talked about the world carried assumptions he didn't recognize.
It made him feel a little… distant.
A shame, he admitted quietly to himself. But there's nothing I can do about that now.
More importantly, though, he'd picked up something interesting from listening to conversations—half-heard words between his parents, neighbors, and visiting relatives.
In this world, when people reached a certain age, they awaken a class.
Not everyone awakened the same thing. Some received common classes. Others—rare ones. And a select few were said to awaken classes of exceptional rank, ones that could shape the course of their lives entirely.
Ceadar's tiny fists clenched unconsciously.
Let's just hope mine turns out to be something special.
The thought distracted him a little too much.
His foot slipped.
The floor tilted.
"Oh—"
Before he could even finish the thought, the world lurched—and then vanished.
Strong arms scooped him up mid-fall.
"Careful," his mother said softly, holding him close against her chest. "You're getting brave already."
Ceadar blinked, momentarily startled, then relaxed as warmth enveloped him once more.
That was close, he thought.
He looked up at her calm, familiar face and rested against her shoulder.
Guess I'll have to learn how to walk… and think… at the same time.
Judy, who had been watching from the side with puffed cheeks, crossed her arms.
"…That should've been me," she muttered, clearly unimpressed.
Victor chuckled from where he stood. "Don't worry Judy, you'll get your turn."
"That was different," she huffed, shooting Ceadar a look filled with exaggerated betrayal.
Ceadar, blissfully unaware of sibling rivalry etiquette, simply stared back grabbing onto his mother's breast, tapping on her. "Feed me" he tried to signify, while whining continuously. His mother lowered herself onto a seat and began to nurse him.
Time passed quickly after that.
Before he knew it, the warm glow of the afternoon faded, and the familiar smells of cooking filled the house.
Dinner time.
Hannah gently shifted Ceadar in her arms, thoughtful.
"I was thinking," she said aloud, glancing toward Victor and Mira, "since Ceadar can already walk, maybe it's time to stop breastfeeding and give him proper food for once."
Ceadar's thoughts screeched to a halt.
Wait—what?
Victor raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
"He's growing fast," Hannah replied. "And he needs to start getting used to solid food sooner or later."
Mira nodded approvingly. "Great idea," she said. "You don't want him too dependent on milk forever."
She turned toward the kitchen. "I already prepared some warm oats porridge for him."
Ceadar froze.
…Porridge?
A chill ran through his tiny body.
I've always hated porridge, he thought in horror. And why are we cutting out the milk now?!
As if sensing his rising panic, his face scrunched up. His lips trembled.
"No—no—no—" he tried to protest.
What came out instead was a pitiful whimper.
"Oh, hey," Hannah said quickly, rocking him gently. "It's alright. It's okay."
Ceadar's eyes watered dangerously.
This is a tragedy, he thought. A true tragedy.
Hannah pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, her voice calm and reassuring. "You'll like it. It's warm."
Ceadar disagreed.
Strongly.
But trapped in the body of an eight-month-old, there was little he could do except accept his fate—spoonful by spoonful, swallowing his irritation along with the porridge and barely holding back a wail of betrayal.
Shortly after a several spoons, Ceadar let out a subtle cry, thinking to himself "I'm never gonna eat oats porridge again, I feel so irritated"
His mother shushed him, wiping of smears of porridge from his face
Second life, he thought bleakly. And I'm already suffering.