Jun opened his eyes.
The first thing he noticed was the cold. Not the gentle coolness of night air—but a biting, uncomfortable chill that seeped into his
bones.
He frowned, instinctively pulling at the blanket—
Only to realize it was rough. Too rough. His eyes snapped open. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. Wooden walls, worn and aged. The faint smell of smoke lingered in the air.
Jun sat up abruptly.
"…Where…?"
His voice caught. It sounded—younger, higher, softer.
He froze.
Slowly, almost mechanically, he raised his hands. They were smaller, thinner and had a callus he was unfamiliar with.
A sharp breath escaped him.
"What…?"
The door creaked open.
Jun's head snapped toward it, his heart pounding.
An old man stepped inside, carrying a small bowl. His clothes were simple, patched in several places, his back slightly hunched with
age and his hair thinned with time.
When he saw Jun awake, his lined face softened into a smile.
"You're up," the old man said gently. "Good. I was worried the fever would take you away from me."
Jun stared at him. Words refused to come.
The old man walked closer, setting the bowl down beside the bed.
"Eat a little," he continued. "You must be starving."
Jun's gaze shifted to the bowl. Plain porridge, steam flowing like a river up to the ceiling.
Real.
Everything felt real—too real.
His fingers trembled slightly as he looked back at the wrinkled old man.
"…Where… am I?"
The question came out hoarse.
The old man paused, then chuckled softly. "Still confused, hm? You've been out for two days."
He reached out, placing a rough but gentle hand on Jun's head.
"This is home, child."
Home.
The word echoed in Jun's mind.
Something deep inside him stirred—faint memories that weren't his, yet felt like they should be.
A small house.
Fields.
Long days of labor.
And this old man…
"…Grandpa…?"
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
The old man's smile widened, eyes crinkling.
"Of course. Who else would it be, the divine emperor?"
Jun's breath hitched.
The room felt smaller. The air heavier. This wasn't possible. It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense, but the warmth of the hand on his head…
The smell of the porridge…
The rough texture of the blanket beneath his fingers…
All of it told him the same thing—this wasn't a dream.
Jun lowered his gaze, staring at his trembling hands.
His thoughts raced, collided, broke apart.
This can't be happening…
It's not real.
It can't be!
I was just…
"Jun,"
Jun snapped out of his panic and looked at the old man. The man's eyes held worry for the young boy.
"Are you okay?"
Jun stared at him for a while, still not coming to terms with his current situation, yet he couldn't ignore the old man's worry. It wasn't
just his own sense of right, but as if he was truly the man's grandson.
"I…" Jun swallowed, still not used to the voice. "I am okay."
The old man's gaze bore into Jun's, observing him for what felt like an eternity. A small smile grew on the old man's lips.
Out of nowhere the old man's hand shot out—Jun flinched, eyes squeezing shut as his hands came up in defense. What came wasn't pain, but warmth and…
…Tears?
The old man had pulled him into a tight embrace, his frail body trembling as he cried into Jun's chest.
"I was so scared." The man's voice was hoarse now, his calm demeanor completely dissolving.
Jun froze in his arms, unsure what to do. He felt a desire to hug him back, he was his dear grandfather, but at the same time, he was a
stranger.
Jun felt warmth, an intoxicating feeling of safety and certainty. His mind grew hazy, and he let himself be overtaken by the dark.
The world shifted. The biting chill vanished, replaced by the scent of home—his true home, one that smelled of ginger, garlic and tea.
Jun was back. He sat in his favorite cushioned chair, the dining table smooth beneath his palms. His parents and brother sat across from him, their faces glowing in the soft light of the chandelier.
In his hand, he held a red envelope. The paper inside was thick and smelled of ink.
"I got in," Jun said, his voice steady and deep—his real voice. He held up the acceptance letter like a trophy—a big smile spreading on his lips.
The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat before the room exploded. His parents didn't just cheer, they surged forward. His father's hand slammed onto his shoulder in pride, and then they were all there—a chaotic, laughing pile of arms and warmth. The chair tipped, sending them all to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
"I... can't... breathe," Jun wheezed, laughing through the crushing weight of their hug.
"You earned it, son," his father whispered near his ear. "I'm so proud."
"Wake up, Jun."
The voice didn't belong to his father.
Jun blinked. The warm amber light flickered and paled. His mother's face began to smudge like wet ink on a page. He reached out to grab her sleeve, but his fingers passed through white mist.
The floor vanished. The table disintegrated into white ash. Jun plummeted into a silent, freezing void, the weight of his family's love replaced by a crushing, hollow vacuum.
He landed on something hard. Something that smelled of... old wood?
He didn't want to look. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled a heavy, scratchy blanket over his head.
"Five more minutes," he croaked. The voice was wrong again—too high, too thin. The realization pricked at his chest like a needle.
A hand touched his forehead. It wasn't the soft hand of his mother, it was a palm like sandpaper, calloused with hard labor. But it was warm.
"The fever is gone," It was a familiar, yet unrecognizable sound.
Jun opened his eyes. The wooden ceiling stared back, the same as before. He looked at the old man, who was beaming as if the sun itself was rising in this tiny room.
Jun stared at the ceiling for a bit. He shut his eyes again and rolled over, turning his back on the light, the remnants of the dream slipping through his fingers like sand.
Whoosh
The blanket was yanked away, leaving him shivering.
"Wake up!"
The old man's voice was still bright, but it carried the sharp edge of a commander.
"Wake up, you lazy grandson!"
Jun scrambled up, his thoughts overpowered by a strange, learned fear of this man's temper. "I—I'm sorry, Grandpa."
"You better be," the old man huffed, already heading for the door.
"I've been doing the work of two men while you were taking a nap. Get moving!"
Is this really the same old man that cried on my chest yesterday?
Jun raised an eyebrow looking at the old man, who had far more energy than he expected.
"Stop staring at me like a chicken and go feed them!" the old man commanded.
Jun was just about to ask what he was talking about, but the man's gaze made him swallow his words.
He had the memories of the man's grandchild, but they were like puzzles and he had yet to put the whole picture together.
Lost in thought his body walked instinctively. Before he noticed, he stood before a flock of chickens.
He picked up a bag of seeds and started to empty it next to the chickens. He started humming a foreign melody, smiling as he worked.
"Go ahead and eat, little friends."
He even laughed. As the bag emptied, he stood still for a while...
What am I doing?
A realization struck him, what seemed so normal—wasn't truly normal.
He stared at the chicken in front of him—their eyes glassy and with not even a single thought behind them.
"Are you done!?"
Jun sighed.
"Yes, Grandpa."