"Wake up, sleepyhead!" — a persistent voice breaks through my slumber. I slowly open my eyes and see a boy about ten years old in front of me. He has a thin build, messy red hair sticking out in all directions, and freckles scattered across his face, giving him a mischievous look. His bright blue eyes sparkle with impatience, and his worn-out clothes suggest he knows nothing of luxury. He shakes me by the shoulders, as if trying to pull me from the embrace of sleep.
Fully awake now, I rub my eyes and survey my surroundings. The room is tiny and cramped, with an old bunk bed on one side, its mattresses sagging as if they have endured countless restless nights. On the other side stands a wardrobe without doors and a dusty dresser, on which sits a broken desk lamp. Next to it is a chair that, surprisingly, looks like the cleanest item in the room. The dim light filtering through the small window creates a gloomy atmosphere, emphasizing the neglect and poverty of this place. But the most frightening part is that I cannot comprehend where I am.
"Where am I?" — I ask, squinting slightly against the bright light, seemingly addressing no one. But as I close my eyes to shield them from the brightness, I suddenly freeze. In front of me is not the hand of a 23-year-old worker, but a small hand of a boy with soft skin, looking so fragile and innocent.
"What silly questions! Come on, or Madame Vickerbottom will leave you hungry again!" — with these words, he grabs my hand and pulls me along. My mind feels shrouded in fog, and I simply follow him, trying to make sense of the bizarre situation I find myself in.
We exit the cramped room and walk down a dilapidated corridor, the walls of which are covered with peeling wallpaper, sagging like old memories. A few photographs hang on the walls: one shows a middle-aged woman with kind eyes surrounded by about thirty children of various ages, each radiating joy and hope. Stepping on the old, creaky floorboards, we finally reach a large hall where many children are already sitting in front of plates, waiting for food. Their voices blend into a collective murmur, creating an atmosphere of anticipation and hope.
As we search for a place to sit, brief memories flash through my mind of how I first arrived at this orphanage, how I became friends with Eric — the boy who woke me up. The closer we get to the dining table, the faster and more vividly the memories resurface, as if they are eager to break free.
"Thank you for waking me up, Eric". — I say this automatically, my tone still slightly drowsy, as if I have repeated these words a hundred times before. Meanwhile, the last memories of this body play in my head. My name is Morpho Umbra, and I am in Marseille, a port city in the south of France. At six years old, Madame Vickerbottom found me on the street and brought me to the orphanage. I am now ten years old. At least, that is who I am now, although just an hour ago, I was a typical 23-year-old factory worker preparing to finish my shift.
But unfortunately, at the moment I was about to leave the factory, some idiot, neglecting safety protocols, attempted to cut a metal pipe with an inappropriate circular saw. As a result, that very saw, moving at 200 m/s, instantly severed my head from my body.
"Well, not the most successful story of a transmigrant. Where is my promised Truck-kun?". — I thought with a smirk, but no one answered my question. Inside me, a feeling began to grow that this was not the end, but merely the beginning of a new, mysterious chapter in my life.