Darkness.
That's all there was at the end.
A cold, endless darkness swallowing every regret, every memory, until even fear faded.
Then—
Light.
Warmth.
A sharp cry tears from my throat as cold air crashes into my lungs, burning and sharp. My body trembles, small and helpless, as something warm wraps around me, pressing me against a soft chest. A steady heartbeat thuds quietly near my ear.
What…?
I try to move, but my limbs are tiny, weak, uncoordinated. My hands, so small I can't even close them fully, twitch in the cold air before a warm, callused hand clasps around them.
"It's alright, little one… you're safe now…"
A soft, tired voice wraps around me, calming the panic twisting in my chest. Another cry rises near me, thin and tired, echoing in the small room.
Another baby?
Days pass.
Or maybe weeks.
Time is strange when you're small, unable to hold up your head or even keep your eyes open for long. But my mind is clear—painfully clear.
I'm a baby.
But I remember everything.
Reborn…?
Absurd. Yet there's no other explanation.
The world around me is quiet, simple, alive.
The house is built from pale stone, thick wooden beams crossing the low ceiling above. A hearth crackles softly in the corner, filling the air with warmth and the scent of burning wood. Herbs hang from strings over the fireplace, their sharp, earthy scents mixing with the faint aroma of boiling stew.
Our beds are simple, straw stuffed under patchwork quilts. Shelves hold clay jars, woven baskets, rough pottery. Wooden chairs scrape across the floor when people move them, and the front door creaks when it opens to the dirt road outside.
Through a small window, I see green fields, goats wandering near a wooden fence, villagers carrying buckets of water from a stone well.
No lights.
No cars.
No humming machines.
Is this the future?
Did humanity destroy itself in war, burning everything to ash until the survivors forgot their machines and returned to wood and dirt roads?
That's the only explanation that makes sense as I watch the world from the cradle, unable to do more than wiggle my fingers and kick my feet.
There are four people living in this house:
A woman with soft brown hair and warm, tired eyes. She carries us with care, hums softly when she cooks over the hearth, and holds us close when we cry.
A man with dark hair and a rough beard, his hands thick with calluses from chopping wood and working the fields. His voice is low and steady, his laughter quiet but warm when he returns home at night.
And the other baby.
My twin brother.
Soft tufts of dark hair. Tiny hands that twitch as he sleeps, breath rising and falling softly, eyes wide and curious when he is awake.
One morning, sunlight spilling through the window, I hear them speaking softly as they lean over our cradle.
"Our little Sora is awake again," the woman says, her voice warm.
She smiles down at me, brushing a stray wisp of hair from my forehead with gentle fingers.
...Sora?
The man chuckles, leaning down to brush a large hand across the other baby's hair.
"And this one's always sleeping, huh? Our little Akira."
Akira…
Sora.
Akira.
Our names.
A strange warmth flickers in my chest as the words settle into me, grounding me in this new world.
Days blend into each other.
I watch everything.
The way the smoke drifts up from the hearth, curling and fading into the dark chimney. The way the sunlight warms the wooden floorboards, shifting with the slow crawl of the day. The way the villagers speak, carrying baskets of vegetables, their laughter echoing faintly outside the small window.
My brother sleeps beside me, his small hand brushing against mine in the cradle, warm and soft.
He is just a baby, unaware of the world's truths.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should envy him for that.
Today, the air feels damp, clouds hanging low over the village. Our mother wraps us in soft cloth, carrying us outside to visit the well. My brother falls asleep against her shoulder, while I peek out from the cloth, blinking against the cool breeze.
Villagers walk by, offering smiles and quiet greetings. A dog barks near a wooden fence, children run barefoot down the road, laughter echoing as they chase each other with sticks.
Mother stops near an older woman, her hair bound in a gray scarf, her hands rough from years of labor.
They exchange words, warm and familiar, as I watch from the safety of Mother's arms.
The old woman holds a clay pot filled with dark soil. Her lips move softly, eyes narrowing in quiet focus.
I blink, trying to understand.
And then—
A pale blue light shimmers around her fingertips, swirling in the air like mist, dancing softly before sinking into the pot.
I freeze.
The dirt inside the pot stirs.
Slowly, a tiny green sprout pushes through, unfolding small, vibrant leaves that glisten in the dim light.
The glow fades, leaving only the living sprout behind.
What… was that?
My small hands twitch against the cloth, my eyes wide.
That was real.
That wasn't a trick or a machine or something hidden behind smoke and mirrors.
Magic.
In that single moment, everything changes.
This isn't Earth.
Not a ruined Earth, not a forgotten corner untouched by time.
A world where magic is real could never be Earth.
Excitement surges through me, sharp and electric.
I can feel my heart pounding in my small chest, my breath catching as I stare, unable to look away.
Magic.
It's real.
And I'm here.
Curiosity flares, burning away the quiet fear that has clung to me since I opened my eyes in this small, unfamiliar world.
How does it work?
Can I learn it?
Is it something anyone can do?
A goal forms quietly, solidifying in the depths of my mind.
In my past life, I was nothing.
A forgotten face.
A boy who faded into the gray, waiting for change that never came.
But this world is different.
Magic is real.
I will learn it.
I will master it.
And I will become strong in this world that has given me a second chance.
I look down at my small hands, clenching them into tiny fists.
Akira sleeps quietly beside me, unaware of the thoughts swirling in my mind.
For now, that is fine.
He can sleep, and I will watch.
I will learn.
And one day, I will stand in this world not as a forgotten child, but as someone who truly lives.