Life had been moving along with predictable smoothness. My research on string theory continued steadily, but most of my professional attention was devoted to Quantum Chromodynamics—QCD—the field I found endlessly fascinating. At its core, QCD explores the behavior of quarks and gluons, the elementary particles that compose nucleons and govern the formation of protons and neutrons. Despite the complexity of the subject, the routine of my days had begun to feel dull.
After another exhausting day at the lab, I checked out and walked through the main hallway, a four-minute stretch that usually offered nothing noteworthy. As I made my way toward the exit, my mind wandered to an unsettling realization: I no longer felt the thrill that used to energize me when I first entered this field. I had mastered substantial portions of physics and much of advanced chemistry, achievements that were once genuinely fun. I had earned my place in the scientific community—some even referred to me as a top researcher—but I lacked any groundbreaking accomplishment worthy of being remembered in history. My publication record was extensive, yet none of my papers could be called revolutionary.
My days had become monotonously consistent: assisting colleagues with mathematical models or experimental setups, then returning to my own work, which often felt like staring at a blank canvas waiting for inspiration. Occasionally, I regretted never pursuing a relationship. Several women approached me—usually after learning about my position and financial status—but nothing genuine ever formed.
For clarity, my wealth did not come from my research. My parents had left behind a considerable fortune, enough for me to employ a maid, a driver, and a highly competent portfolio manager. Under his guidance, my investments grew at a reliable rate of around nineteen percent per year. It might not sound extraordinary on paper, but when dealing with a fortune as large as mine, the numbers became almost unreal.
My thoughts settled when I exited the facility. I greeted the front-desk assistant, Joy Hill, a new employee who came from a difficult background. For him, this job was an opportunity he deeply valued. "Have a good day," he said, his voice bright with enthusiasm. "You too," I replied with a rare cheerful tone.
My car was already waiting outside. As usual, I slipped out of my lab coat before entering and took my seat in the passenger side. The ride home typically lasted about forty minutes—long enough for me to decompress after a draining day.
The road was unusually quiet until the sudden, jarring blare of a truck horn shattered the calm. The sound grew louder in a heartbeat. Before I could fully process what was happening, a massive twelve-wheeler truck skidded sideways toward us at terrifying speed. My driver, a remarkably skilled man, reacted instantly, swerving sharply. We nearly avoided the collision, but another vehicle behind us—unable to brake in time—slammed into our side.
My senses sharpened instinctively. I gripped the door and the seat with all my strength. Even with high-grade airbags and my seatbelt fastened, there was nothing more we could do to avoid the impact. The hit threw my head violently against the side window, sending a burst of agony through my skull. The airbags deployed a fraction of a second later.
The car flipped—once, twice—I lost count. When everything finally stopped, we were hanging upside down on the highway. My ears rang, my vision blurred, and my entire body pulsed with pain.
Then, cutting through the haze, I heard sirens—police, ambulance, all converging on the scene.
Darkness pressed in around me—not ominous, not comforting, simply… vacant. A numb, drifting sensation washed over me, replacing the chaos of the highway. I tried to move, to speak, to think, but everything slipped away like water through cupped hands.
For a moment—whether a single heartbeat or an eternity—I felt weightless.
Then breath entered my lungs.
A small, trembling inhale that didn't feel like it belonged to me.
My eyes snapped open.
No twisted metal.No flashing sirens.No shattered glass.
Instead, I found myself staring at a ceiling—wooden, uneven, clearly crafted by hand. A soft orange glow flickered over the grain, firelight reflecting gently across the surface.
My mind stalled.
Where… am I?
I attempted to sit up, but my arms refused to respond the way they should. They felt shorter. Softer. Even the blanket covering me felt oversized, like a heavy quilt draped over a toddler.
"What…?"The word left me in a high-pitched voice—small, childlike. Definitely not the voice of a thirty-something scientist.
A cold, clinical panic set in—the kind that strikes when a supposedly stable equation suddenly spirals into paradox.
I pushed myself upright, wrestling against the overstuffed blanket, and looked down.
Small hands.Thin wrists.A child's body clothed in coarse linen.
My heart pounded, quicker and lighter than before—undeniably a child's heartbeat.
I swung my legs off the bed. They dangled several centimeters above the wooden floorboards. A faint draft brushed my feet, and that's when I noticed the sound beyond the room—voices murmuring outside, deep adult voices speaking in a language I had never heard. Not English. Not any European tongue. The rhythm felt ancient, almost ceremonial.
I slid off the bed, wobbling as my undersized legs tried to find balance.
The room was small: thick stone walls, a shuttered window, and a simple desk with a candle guttering in a metal holder. A clay cup half-filled with water stood beside it. Everything was handmade—pre-industrial, almost medieval.
My breathing quickened.
"I… died," I murmured. Saying it aloud didn't make it any easier to comprehend. "Or something close to it."
My memories blurred at the crash—the screeching metal, the impact, the sirens—and then nothing. A void. And now I was in a child's body, in a place that felt centuries removed from my world.
I stumbled toward the desk, noticing a small copper mirror propped against the wall. It was uneven, its shine earned through polishing rather than modern manufacturing, but reflective enough.
My reflection stared back at me.
A boy—seven, perhaps eight.Snow-white hair, messy and soft.Large brown eyes.Round cheeks.And pointed ears.
Not me. Not remotely close to my original ethnicity. He looked like a character drawn from an old fantasy manuscript.
I touched the mirror.The boy touched it back.
"This… is real," I whispered.
Before I could gather my spiraling thoughts, the door creaked open.
A young woman entered—perhaps in her early twenties, dressed in a simple green-brown garment that flowed from her shoulders to her ankles. The sleeves were part of the same single piece, practical and modest. Her expression shifted instantly when she saw me standing—shock, then relief, then something tender enough to make her eyes glisten.
She spoke quickly, her voice trembling with emotion in that unfamiliar language.
Then she rushed toward me and knelt, lowering herself so our eyes met. Without hesitation, she hugged me and pressed a gentle kiss to my cheek.
I froze.
This wasn't a dream.This wasn't some hallucination of a dying mind.
I was in another person's body.
From what little I could gather, I was either:
— in an extremely isolated village,— in an unknown country,— in the distant past,— or—most likely—in another world entirely.
Her white hair, her emotional reaction… it all suggested she was a relative. Maybe even family.
I swallowed hard.
Whatever had happened, my life had changed completely.