An age-old question:
Does life exist after death?
Most might never know — but he did.
Light was not the first thing he saw.
Instead, it was pain.
A strong and sharp coldness— crept into his bones.
Wood creaked faintly in the distance, and he tried to open his and see but everything around him was blurred like fog.
He didn't know who he was, or where he was.
Everything felt wrong. Alien.
Then, it hit him.
The scream of a woman echoed through the air. In language that sounded broken and unfamiliar to him , but you could hear the wary and fear in her voice.
Then suddenly he tried to speak — anything. But the only sound that escaped his mouth was a cry.
Not the cry of a man
A baby's cry.
That's when he realized the truth:
He had been reborn.
And just like that, a year passed.
A full year of waking up each day to the awkward reality of being reborn in a world that made no sense.
He didn't know how he died in his previous life, nor how he was reborn.
In his past life, he was just an ordinary man — looking for a job, trying to build a quiet life, maybe get married someday.
He never dreamed of being someone great.
All he wanted was a simple, peaceful life… with a few twists along the way.
But now, here he was — in a strange world, lying in what looked like a crumbling hut.
The people nearby looked down at him with concern and warmth in their eyes. "Are these my parents now?"
Judging from their worn clothes and the dirt floor beneath him, one thing was painfully clear:
"We're poor. Like, dirt poor.
And just like that, he spent most of his days laying in a straw-filled cradle,
watching the shadows on the ceiling shift with the sunlight —
and occasionally being breastfed by the woman who was now his mother.
She looked kind, even under all the dirt on her face and hands.
Her skin was pale,
and her hair was tucked under a worn scarf.
Her clothes were old, stitched and patched at the sleeves, and her eyes…
her eyes always looked tired, but soft when they looked at him.
The same went for the man who seemed to be his father.
He looked like a man in his late thirties — maybe older.
His face was rough, with a thin beard and skin tanned by the sun,
but his frame was lean, almost bony.
There was something wired in the way he stood, like his back had seen too many seasons of lifting more than he should.
His hands were big , fingers thick and cracked, and his clothes hung loose — like they'd been passed down more than once.
But there was something gentle in his silence.
He didn't speak much, but when he looked at the baby,
his rough features softened — even if only for a second.
The house was small — made of rough wood and packed mud walls.
The air always smelled like smoke and wet straw, and in the corner, a single clay pot simmered quietly, filling the hut with the scent of boiled herbs.
From what he could tell… this was old.
This wasn't the modern world
And to this day,
he still couldn't understand what language they were speaking.
It sounded old, broken — nothing like what he remembered from his past life.
But even if the words made no sense,
the emotions behind them did.
The softness in her voice, the rhythm in her speech… the way she leaned close and whispered it again and again, almost like a prayer.
Lucien.
It was faint at first.
Then clearer.
He didn't know why, but he knew that was his name.
That was who he was now.
Lucien.
And as he started up at the wooden beams of
The ceiling a warmth spread through his chest—
Not from the fire…
But from something else. Something deep
In his blood .
He did knows it yet but the warmth was not ordinary.
It was only the beginning.