In a stable scented with dry hay and the musky odor of horses, a young man lay still, motionless as if in a deep, dreamless sleep. The dry hay beneath him rustled softly with each breath he took. His black, tangled hair was flecked with strands of hay, and the once-fine features of his face were hidden under a layer of dirt and dust. His clothes—torn, stained, and cruste. Yet despite the discomfort, the boy's face bore a strange peace, a tranquility so profound it seemed as if he wasn't lying on a bed of straw, but in the warm, tender embrace of someone he had once loved.
Outside, the world had long awakened. Birds chirped and fluttered, a dog barked in the distance, and sunlight—golden and vibrant—slowly crept in through the open stable doors. A particularly bold beam of light filtered in, stretching across the hay-laden floor and landing squarely on his face.
The sudden warmth on his skin made his eyelashes flutter. He stirred.
A few moments later, his eyes opened slowly, the lids heavy as if weighed down by centuries of exhaustion. They were hazel—though hard to tell beneath the exhaustion—and momentarily glazed over, as if struggling to accept the reality in front of them.
He blinked a few times.
Then sat up.
His first thought was not of pain or surprise, but confusion. His head tilted slightly as he looked around. Wood walls. Hay. A pitchfork in the corner. A wooden water trough.
"Where… am I?" he murmured aloud.
His voice cracked like a man who hadn't spoken in years.
He slowly brought his hands up into view and stared at them for a long while. Whole. Healthy. Stained with dirt and a few bruises, but unmistakably intact.
Shock began to crawl across his face. "But… my hands were… they were gone."
Panic flickered in his eyes. He examined his arms again, then his chest. No wound. No blood. No hole where a sword had once gone clean through his heart. Only skin. Only breath.
"No… no… I was dying. I felt it. I saw the blood, the girl, the blade..."
He tried to grasp the memory, but it was blurry—like a half-forgotten dream. The battlefield. The pain. The girl with silver hair. Her eyes filled with tears. The voice from the sky.
He saw her again in his mind. Beautiful. Broken. Crying for him.
A frown settled on his face. "Who was she?" he whispered.
Sadness replaced the confusion. There had been something in her eyes… something real. But now he couldn't remember her name. Did he ever even know it?
"She cried for me… and I couldn't even say her name. What kind of person am I?"
"Her voice um... No, even if I hear her voice again, I won't be able to recognize her."
He clenched his hands into fists.
"And… Father… why did he stab me?"
The frown deepened.
"I know he's my father… but that's all. I don't remember his voice. His face. His name. Nothing."
He sat silently for a while, haunted by questions that had no answers.
Then, his stomach growled.
The noise startled him back to reality. He rubbed his belly with an embarrassed chuckle, as if somehow the sound had broken the spell of his thoughts.
"Okay… so I'm starving."
His eyes scanned the stable until they landed on a water container in the far corner. He stood slowly, legs shaky but functional, and started walking toward it.
As he passed a wooden support beam, his eyes caught a reflection on a tarnished mirror nailed to the wall.
He froze.
His breath caught.
The reflection staring back at him… was not his.
At least, not the face he remembered.
Black hair.
Different eyes.
Even the structure of his face had changed.
He stepped closer to the mirror. Moved his head. The reflection moved too. It was definitely him—but different.
He stepped back.
Stepped forward again.
Still the same.
He squinted at the mirror. "Maybe it's broken?"
But then he laughed dryly. "Mirrors don't lie. They just break."
He ran a hand through his black hair and sighed.
He studied the new face for a long while. It wasn't unattractive—just unfamiliar. Leaner. A bit gaunter. But still youthful.
"But this face is nothing compared to my white-haired face."
"I used to have white hair… didn't I?"
The image of his old self flickered in his memory—silver-white hair like moonlight. He barely remembered it, but it was there, like a ghost.
"Where did that guy go?"
He shook his head, then finally turned to drink some water. It was cool and refreshing, the first good thing he had felt in… how long? Days? Weeks?
After quenching his thirst, he returned to the mirror and looked again. Still the new face.
This wasn't just a minor change. It was transformation.
He muttered to himself, "Everything's changed. My body. My face. I woke up in a stable. My father stabbed me. A king shouted. A girl cried. And now I'm here."
He rubbed his temples. "This is insane."
Then something clicked.
His eyes widened.
"Oh… wait…" he said slowly.
His hands fell to his sides as realization dawned.
"They were calling someone a bastard… a cursed child… a whore's son."
He looked down at himself.
"That was me."
He staggered backward a step. "I'm… illegitimate?"
The shame hit him like a wave. Not because he believed it, but because of how many others did.
"And… my mother? Who was she?"
He concentrated. Tried to recall her face. Her voice. Anything.
Nothing.
Just a void.
Why couldn't he remember her?
He felt hollow. Like a puzzle missing too many pieces.
His mind churned.
"The arena. I was on my knees. People watching. They were screaming. Then he—Father—stabbed me. Then the king shouted. And then…"
He looked around again.
"This place."
He flexed his fingers.
"My hands… grew back?"
None of it made sense. It was like time had rewound, and he'd been given a second chance—but as someone else.
And then, just as he was about to sit back on the hay and rest his spinning mind, he heard it.
A voice.
Calm. Echoing.
[Hello]
He froze.
The voice didn't come from outside.
It came from inside his head.
He spun around. No one was there.