The first thing he became aware of was the quiet.
Not the peaceful, sleepy kind that settles over a house before sunrise.This quiet was heavier—like a blanket someone had forgotten to lift, pressing down on the chest and making it just a little harder to breathe.
He opened his eyes slowly.
He wasn't supposed to be… here.
But he was.
The ceiling above him was plain, white, cracked from age. The corners of the room were dim, shadows stretching long across posters of comic heroes, glow-in-the-dark stars scattered unevenly on the ceiling. A shelf full of books—some flipped, some falling—leaned to the right as if too tired to stand straight.
A small desk was covered in open notebooks, half-finished homework, pens without caps.Clothes lay in piles. Toys in others.
A child's room.
But unfamiliar.
Wait…
His eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat—not from fear, but from recognition.He knew this room. Not deeply, not from memory, but from fragments of images, screenshots people had shared, the random clips he had seen online.
But that wasn't possible.Except… it was.
He pushed himself up. His arms were thin. His legs shorter. The bed larger than his body. And when he moved, his shirt slid down small shoulders, sleeves hanging over his hands.
No… no, no, no—
He stumbled out of bed and went to the mirror on the closet door.
And there he was.
Not him.Stiles Stilinski.
Eight years old.Hair messy like he'd just lost a fight with gravity.Eyes dark, ringed with exhaustion and something deeper—grief.A grief that wasn't his, yet he felt it anyway.A grief that had settled in this room like dust no one dared to brush away.
He stared at the reflection.Slowly, quietly, he whispered:
"I… I really am him."
The words felt unreal. The air felt unreal. His own heartbeat felt unreal.
Teen Wolf.
A universe full of supernatural danger.A show he never watched, only heard about from friends.Bits and pieces. Random spoilers. Rumors.
He didn't know enough.
He didn't know when things started.He didn't know how things unfolded.He didn't know how many dangers were coming.
But one thing he did know:
This world did not play fair.
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the mirror.
He hadn't asked for this.He hadn't prepared for this.And worst of all…
He wasn't stepping into Stiles's life on a normal day.
Because Stiles's mother—Claudia Stilinski—had died one week ago.
No amount of reincarnation could erase the grief that lived in the walls of this house.No amount of new memories could soften how the Sheriff's footsteps downstairs sounded slower, heavier, more tired.
He whispered again—this time to himself, not the mirror:
"You have to be careful. You have to be ready. You can't break down now."
He wasn't just living Stiles's life.He was living right after Stiles had lost one of the most important people in his world.
He took a long breath.
Then another.
When he finally turned away from the mirror, he did so with a decision—not confidence, not strength, but something quieter, more determined:
I won't fall apart. Not today.
A soft knock came from the door.Gentle. Hesitant.
"Stiles? You awake?"A voice that tried to be steady, but held a crack barely hidden.
The Sheriff.
His father.
A man who had lost his wife only days ago, yet still woke up early to make breakfast for his son.
Stiles swallowed the knot forming in his throat.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'm up."
The door opened slowly.Sheriff Stilinski stepped inside. His uniform shirt wasn't buttoned yet, and his hair—usually neat—was a little messy, like he had run a hand through it too many times already. There were lines on his face that shouldn't be there yet. Lines that grief had carved too fast.
He looked at Stiles with a mixture of careful warmth and worry."Morning, buddy."
Stiles nodded silently.
"You, uh… slept okay?" the Sheriff asked.
"Yeah. I think so."
The Sheriff tried to smile. It didn't reach his eyes, but it was an honest attempt."Well… breakfast is ready. I made pancakes. Figured you deserved something good today."
A week ago, this would have been normal.Now, it felt like the Sheriff was holding his entire world together using pancakes as glue.
"Thanks, Dad."
The Sheriff paused.His eyes softened—the word Dad hit harder now, deeper. Like it meant more.
"Anytime," he said gently. "Get dressed and come down when you're ready, okay?"
"Okay."
When the door closed, the silence returned.But it was different now.Not as suffocating.
He changed quickly—jeans slightly baggy, a red T-shirt, and a hoodie that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and… something comforting. Maybe the old Stiles's shampoo. Maybe the Sheriff's hugs. Maybe the memory of a mother who used to do the laundry.
Downstairs, the smell of pancakes filled the air—warm, sugary, familiar.
The Sheriff stood by the stove, flipping one pancake that was slightly too dark on one side. He wasn't really cooking to cook. He was cooking to cope.
"You okay?" the Sheriff asked again as Stiles sat.
"Yeah," Stiles answered quietly. "Are you?"
The Sheriff froze.For a second, just a second, the man's mask slipped.
But then he cleared his throat and set a pancake on Stiles's plate.
"I'm… managing," he said. "We both are."
They ate in silence—an understandable, respectful silence.
Halfway through breakfast, someone knocked on the front door.Not loud.Not urgent.
A small, timid knock.
The Sheriff frowned. "Who would be here this early…?"
He opened the door.
And there he was.
Scott McCall.Eight years old.Backpack half unzipped, hair sticking up in odd directions, wearing mismatched socks and a smile so bright it almost hurt to look at.
"Hi, Sheriff!" Scott chirped. "Um… is Stiles awake?"
The Sheriff blinked.Then something warm—maybe gratitude—softened his expression.
"He is. Come inside."
Scott stepped in, looking like a puppy who wasn't sure if he was allowed inside but really hoped he was.
"Hi, Stiles!" he said, waving enthusiastically with both hands.
Stiles blinked. Then smiled without meaning to.
Scott's innocence wasn't forced.It wasn't pretending.It wasn't hiding pain.
He was simply a kid.A good, gentle kid who didn't know that in a few years, he'd be thrown into a world of monsters and danger.
But right now?Right now he was just a friend.A pure one.
"Hey, Scott," Stiles said softly.
Scott grinned. "I brought my new soccer ball! And my mom said I can play for a while if it's okay with your dad."
The Sheriff looked at Stiles.
And Stiles understood.
His dad wasn't sure if Stiles was ready for play. For noise. For going outside. For anything that wasn't sadness and quiet.
But Stiles nodded. "Yeah. I want to. I'm good."
The Sheriff hesitated… then smiled gently.
"Okay. Stay close to the house, alright? And be careful."
Scott saluted. "Yes, sir!"
Outside, the air was cool and fresh—sunlight soft, not too bright, as if the weather itself understood the house's grief and didn't want to intrude.
Stiles and Scott walked across the yard.Scott held the soccer ball in both hands, swinging it like it was precious treasure.
"So, uh…" Scott kicked a pebble. "My mom said… we don't have to play if you're sad."
Stiles glanced at him.
Scott wasn't awkward about it. He wasn't scared to mention it. He was just considerate in the purest way a kid could be.
"It's okay," Stiles said. "I… want to be outside."
Scott nodded seriously, then brightened. "Okay! You can be goalie if you want!"
Goalie.The easier job.The one Scott thought wouldn't be too tiring.
"Sure," Stiles said. "Goalie it is."
Scott placed the ball on the ground, backed up three steps dramatically, and announced:
"Get ready for the strongest kick in the universe!"
He kicked.
The ball rolled to Stiles like a slow-motion turtle.
Stiles caught it easily and blinked. "Wow. Yeah. Really strong."
Scott beamed proudly.
They played.They talked.They ran, laughed, tripped over each other.
And with every passing minute, the heaviness in Stiles's chest loosened just a little.
At one point, Scott flopped onto the grass. "Why does grass smell so good after it rains?"
"It didn't rain today," Stiles said.
"Oh." Scott sniffed the grass again. "Then why does it smell good anyway?"
Stiles shrugged. "Because it's grass?"
Scott accepted this answer like it was profound wisdom.
They lay there, staring at the sky.
"Stiles?" Scott asked quietly.
"Yeah?"
"I'm… I'm really glad we're friends."
Stiles turned his head.Scott wasn't smiling now.He was just being honest.
"Me too, Scott."
And he meant it.More than Scott could ever know.
Because in this world—dangerous, supernatural, unpredictable—Scott's friendship wasn't just comforting.
It was priceless.
The Sheriff watched them from the porch.His face softened, relief washing over him.Stiles couldn't hear his dad from this distance, but he didn't have to.
He knew exactly what the Sheriff was thinking:
He's still laughing. He's still here. Maybe… maybe we'll be okay.
Stiles closed his eyes, letting the moment sink in.
This world was dangerous.The future was terrifying.He didn't know what was coming.He didn't know how much time he had before the supernatural storm broke open.
But right now, in this moment, lying on the grass with Scott beside him…
He wasn't scared.
Not yet.
Tomorrow would come.Danger would come.But today?
Today he had pancakes, sunlight, and a friend who didn't know the meaning of fear yet.
And for now…That was enough.