The morning sunlight slipped gently through the gaps of a small window on the second floor, dancing across the wooden floor that looked old yet well maintained. The scent was distinct, dew, damp earth, and straw that still retained a trace of warmth from the previous night.
I slowly opened my eyes.
A ceiling of rough wooden beams immediately greeted my sight. There were no white panels, no neon lights, and certainly… no phone notifications glowing at the corner of the bed.
Living without modern technology did not immediately make me panic. No Wi-Fi? No problem. At least I no longer had to stare at an empty screen waiting for messages that never came. This silence… strangely enough, was calming.
I took a deep breath.
So… this is what it feels like to wake up on the first day after death.
I touched my own cheek. Cold, yet alive.
My old body… might have been buried, or vanished just like that—in a hospital room, on a city street, or somewhere else entirely. I don't remember. Everything was cut off so quickly, too quietly. As if my life had been forcibly pulled from one world and thrown into another.
And now… I am here. In the small body of a little boy named Yusha. That name still feels unfamiliar, not yet settled in my chest. But for now, there is no other name I can call myself.
My eyes swept across the room.
This room was simple. The straw bed I had slept on last night had already flattened under this small body. A small table stood in the corner, covered with a knitted cloth that seemed to have been used for years. The wooden walls were slightly spaced apart in some areas, but sturdy enough to hold back the cold of the night.
And last night—I was brought here by a woman.
A mother.
She held me as if I were an irreplaceable part of herself. Whispered soft words that I didn't fully understand, then brushed my hair with her warm fingers. She said her name was Alena.
My mother… in this world.
She guided me up the wooden stairs that creaked softly, then calmly opened the door to this room. There was no long explanation. No complicated questions. She simply tucked my small body in, brushed my cheek once more, and extinguished the lantern.
Yet within that silence, there was something comforting.
Not because of this room, not because of the warm straw beneath my back. But because of her presence. Because for the first time in I don't know how long… I did not feel alone.
I pulled my knees up and hugged them slowly.
"So… this is my room," I whispered softly. To the ceiling, or perhaps to myself.
My voice… was too light. A child's voice. Even my own ears felt like laughing when they heard it.
I pulled the thin blanket that had covered my body since last night, then slowly sat up. These small muscles were not yet accustomed to supporting the body's weight, light as it was. There was a slight wobble when my feet touched the wooden floor. But I would not fall.
I did not want to fall—I had just stood up again.
Then suddenly—
Shak!
I quickly turned toward the window.
The window was located on the eastern side of the room. Its position was slightly higher than my head while sitting, allowing the morning light to enter from behind the thin cloth that served as a curtain. The cloth fluttered gently in the wind, as if inviting me to look at the world outside.
There was a sound. Sharp, clean. Like… something slicing through the air at high speed.
Then—
Syuuk!
This time twice. Faster, stronger. The sound vibrated through the morning air that should have been calm.
I stood up and approached, my fingers gently parting the cloth.
The view outside immediately greeted me.
In the distance, not far from this house, stood a large tree—the same tree where I first opened my eyes in this world. Its branches were still swaying gently in the wind, its leaves trembling with a soft, calming sound. That tree… felt like a marker. A boundary between my old life and this new one.
But that was not what caught my attention.
In the yard not far from the tree, someone was moving. A shadow. A male silhouette. His movements were fast and orderly. There was a flash of metal every time he moved, followed by a distinctive sound: a slash cutting through the air.
Not a farmer's movement.
Firm. Disciplined. Trained.
Was that… the sound of a sword?
I had not yet drawn a further conclusion when a voice suddenly cut through everything:
"Yusha! Come down! Breakfast is ready!"
Mother's voice, Alena called from downstairs. Her tone rose half an octave from usual. Not angry, just high enough to make sure I heard her.
I pulled my head away from the window, then looked outside once more.
Sword practice? In this house's yard?
Could it be that…
"Is that… my father?" I whispered softly, almost soundlessly.
I bit my lower lip.
I did not see a man last night. When I arrived, only Alena welcomed me. She carried me, held me, then brought me up to this room. There was no male presence in the dining room. No deep voice from the hallway. Had he only arrived this morning? Or had he been here all along… simply choosing not to show himself?
The question hung there.
But the answer… could wait.
It was better not to make Mother raise her voice another octave just because I was too curious. That question could wait. I still had time, at least for this morning.
"Today is my first day. Not only in this house… but in this world."
My goal?
Simple, at least in theory: to understand this world. To retrace the meaning of the word life itself. And, more than that… to rediscover who I truly am.
This room was on the second floor. Last night, I climbed the stairs in a half-conscious state, guided by Mother's gentle hand. At that time, everything was blurred. Tired. Dark.
But now, in the brightness of the morning sun, when I truly saw the form of the stairs I had to descend… I could only stand frozen.
"What is this…?" I muttered, nearly in disbelief. "Who puts a five-year-old child's room on the second floor without full safety rails? This clearly violates basic safety logic. If I fell while sleepwalking, wouldn't that be the fastest reincarnation death in history?"
My hands gripped the wooden stair railing tightly, like an elderly retiree trying to descend an icy hill.
These stairs were steep. The wood was old, and each step squeaked softly with a kriet, kriiiek sound that resembled complaints from a floor tired of being stepped on. Fortunately, the railing was still intact. Not wobbly. Not slippery. At least that was the only part of this house's architecture I could trust right now.
"All right… slowly. Focus. Don't slip like an idiot."
First step, safe.
Second step, still fine.
Fifth step—
"Ow! Damn it…"
My foot slipped slightly. My heart jumped two levels faster than its normal speed. My knees trembled, and my reflexes—still not fully synchronized with this small body—managed to keep my body from fatal destruction.
"Note this, Yusha," I muttered quietly, regulating my breathing. "I need to relearn how to walk. Like a five-year-old child, because, well… I really am a five-year-old now."
It felt funny.
I used to cross city streets with confident steps and a head full of complaints. Now, even a staircase could make me feel like a baby learning to stand. This body… though new, was not without its flaws.
These stairs felt like a small test from the world I had just entered. Each step squeaked like a hungry cat, as if warning, "You're not fully part of this place yet, kid."
Yet, in the midst of that difficulty, there was something else.
This house… had a breath.
Not breath in a literal sense, of course. But some kind of aura. A warmth that lingered among dust, straw fibers, and old wood. Like a place that had been lived in for a long time. A place that did not feel unfamiliar, even though I had not yet come to know it.
A place that… does not make me afraid.
For the first time after a span of time I can no longer measure… I do not feel alone.
My steps descend the final stair.
And the moment my foot touches the lower floor—
Craaaak!
The front door opens slowly. The sound of its hinges screeches, yet it is not frightening. It is merely the old voice of the house, greeting the morning.
Reflexively, I turn my head.
A tall, large-built man stands in the doorway, his silhouette carved clearly by the morning light pouring in from behind him. His hair is brown, messy, as if it has just fought with the morning wind, or perhaps… he simply has never cared for a comb to begin with. His shoulders are broad. Slung over them is a wooden sword, its length nearly matching my entire height in this body.
I freeze.
Who… is he?
Someone from outside?
A guest, perhaps?
But… if he truly is a guest, should he not have knocked first? Is that not the most basic rule? Even in my old world, full of chaos as it was, people still knew such simple etiquette. Entering a house without permission… feels rude. Impolite. Even suspicious.
Is he a relative?
But… why do I not recognize him?
Why… does not a single fragment of memory surface when I look at his face?
Yet the figure smiles, a wide smile that, to be honest, is slightly too wide for a body of that size. There is a strange contrast between his sturdy build and the friendly smile he wears, as though the two should not exist within the same body.
"Ah, so you're already awake, Yusha," he says in a voice that is deep, warm, and full of control. Like thunder… speaking politely.
I instinctively step back half a step.
My body reacts… not with fear, but with caution. Part of me wants to ask, wants to know, wants to demand an explanation.
But… this body is not afraid.
There is no trembling in my knees, no tension at the back of my neck. Instead… there is something familiar. Strange, and utterly illogical.
The way he stands lazily in the doorway, one hand on his hip, the other gripping the hilt of the wooden sword on his shoulder, those movements are too natural, too relaxed… like a scene I have seen before, whether in a dream or in a life I no longer remember.
I study him more closely.
His eyes, dark brown, deep like soil freshly watered by rain. There are lines of weariness beneath them, but also firmness. His jaw is strong, with a small scar on the side of his cheek a scar that has faded, but not completely disappeared. His nose is straight, and his skin is tanned. Not by lineage, but by sunlight that has tempered him day after day.
That… is the face of someone who lives outside the house.
The face of someone who survives the world, yet still knows how to return home… with a smile.
"Yusha?"
I flinch. He calls me again.
His voice does not change, still calm, still deep.
Yet I do not answer.
This small body… knows. Knows that he is my father.
But I, this soul—the soul that has died and been reshaped—do not know him. To this body, he is home. To my soul… he is a stranger.
A stranger who arrives carrying an aura of warmth that… presses against my chest. Tightens my chest.
And I do not know… whether that is a good thing or a bad thing.
"Yusha, are you daydreaming again?" Mother's voice—Alena's—breaks my thoughts from the direction of the kitchen. "Sit down. Breakfast is ready."
I turn my head quickly.
She is pouring soup from a clay pot into two wooden bowls. The warm aroma of broth mixed with spices drifts gently, filling the room like an embrace I have not felt in a long time. That scent… is calming, yet it also feels unfamiliar. Like a home I have never known, but wish to live in.
"You too, Cedric," she continues, her voice rising half a tone—a tone that clearly shows this is not the first time she has scolded him, "don't train too hard this early in the morning. You'll complain about your back hurting again like last week."
Cedric?
I slowly turn my gaze toward the tall, large-built man.
The man who had been standing in the doorway, who entered without knocking, who carried a wooden sword and a smile as wide as a wheat field…
So… him?
Cedric… is my father?
Father?
I do not say anything right away.
It feels like… trying to fit puzzle pieces that do not quite match, yet still forcing them together. That face—though unfamiliar—holds something warm. And this small body, for some reason, shows no rejection.
But I… my soul… do not know how to respond to this.
In my old world, I was never greeted with questions like "Are you awake?" or "Good morning." There was no small talk. If someone called me, it was because they wanted something from me. My answers were always short—practical. There was no place for friendliness, let alone warmth like this.
And now… this man looks at me while smiling.
Waiting.
Expecting.
Hoping for something I cannot give quickly.
What should I say?
The word "Father" feels heavy. Not because it is unfamiliar, but because I have never used it. Never had a reason to say it. But… this body wants it to come out.
I take a breath, then lower my head slightly—as if pleading with the air for this sentence to sound natural.
"…Good morning, Father," I finally say, softly.
The words leave my mouth like a delayed incantation. Stiff. Halting. But they do not sting. Instead… a small sense of relief flows through my throat afterward.
Cedric chuckles softly.
His voice is deep, like wood being slowly crushed, yet without menace.
"Morning, Yusha. You look healthy enough, to be able to sit around and daydream like an old man."
His tone is light. As though he has long awaited the chance to say that simple line.
I merely give a small smile. Awkward. Stiff. But honest.
Then, as I slowly walk toward the wooden chair, which is slightly too tall for this small body, another question rises in my mind, stirring like a whisper of wind from an open window.
The sword.
The long wooden sword slung over his shoulder. The steady movements in the yard earlier. The sound of air being cut that I heard from the second-floor window. Everything… fits.
Was he the one training so early in the morning?
If so… that means he is trained enough to slice through the air at that speed. And if that is true…
Why does he need training?
Is he a knight? A former soldier? Or merely a sturdy farmer who is overly enthusiastic?
Those questions churn in my mind, stacking upon one another like books left unread.
I know… this is a world resembling medieval Europe, everything matches: wheat fields, white stone houses, dirt roads, even the villagers' clothing. And yes, swords are indeed part of the culture of that era.
But still, this is a small village. Quiet. Peaceful. There are no signs of real threats.
I have not seen any insignia or special attire on him. Only simple clothes made of thick fabric, somewhat dull, and slightly damp with morning sweat.
My head tilts slightly, searching for answers on his face.
That man, Cedric, if that truly is his name, has a calm gaze. Not the gaze of someone on alert against danger, but of someone doing something because… it has become a habit. His movements are relaxed, his body large, yet not stiff. Like a man who has faced mornings with sweat and weapons far too often.
He steps closer to the dining table, the scent of sweat and wood reaching me before his shadow fully arrives. I continue to observe him quietly.
Then, Mother's voice sounds from the kitchen.
"Cedric, you're still training this early?" Alena places the clay pot onto a rattan mat. "Have you never thought of resting for even a single day?"
Her tone is not nagging. More like… concern expressed in a form she is already accustomed to.
Cedric smiles, glancing slightly toward Mother.
"If I don't train," he says casually as he pulls out a chair and sits across from me, "then who will teach Yusha how to swing a sword someday?"
His words are light, but they make me fall silent for a moment.
So… he truly intends to teach me? About swords?
He rests one elbow on the table, his large body still coated with the remnants of sweat from training. Yet he does not look tired. More like someone who feels satisfied.
"Yusha," he says again, this time looking directly at me with those deep brown eyes, "are you ready to start learning how to swing a sword?"
I swallow, not answering. But my gaze… is drawn to something.
On the wall, near the window, hangs a small wooden sword. Its color is lighter than the large sword slung over Cedric's shoulder, and its tip looks rather blunt, clearly not made to harm.
"Father prepared that long ago," Cedric says, as if reading where my eyes are fixed. His voice is deep, but not pressing. "That sword is for you, Yusha. If one day you train diligently like Father, perhaps you will grow strong. Tell me… do you wish to become strong like Father, Yusha?"
The question hangs in the air.
But I…
I do not answer immediately.
Not because I lack a voice. But… because I do not know how to answer a question like that.
In my old life, no one ever asked about my wishes. No one ever said, "What do you want?" or "What do you dream of?" If someone spoke to me, it was to give an order. If they called me, it meant there was work to be done.
And at the dining table, I never even ate with anyone. I always came last. The food was already cold. Sometimes it was gone. Sometimes it was deliberately left behind, but only bones and useless crumbs remained.
Now… I am sitting on a chair. At a full table. Accompanied by voices.
Family?
I do not yet know what that is supposed to be like. But… this seems closer than anything I have ever felt before.
Yet as I am still trying to piece together my answer, Mother's voice cuts in:
"Cedric," she calls from behind the stove, her tone firm. "He is only five years old. Do not burden him with talk about swords."
Cedric glances over briefly, but keeps the small, confident smile on his face.
"I am not burdening him, Alena. I am simply keeping a promise," he replies quietly. "Did we not agree long ago? If our child is a boy, then he will grow as a swordsman."
Alena turns around. She carries a large wooden ladle, still steaming from the pot.
"That comes later," she says, emphasizing each syllable. "Later, Cedric. At the very least… wait until he can say 'sword hilt' without inserting the sound of saliva in the middle."
Cedric holds back a laugh. I can see it from the slight movement at the corners of his lips, wavering gently, like restraining small waves in a sea of patience.
"Very well," he says, pretending to agree. "Then when he can tell which end is the hilt and which is the blade… only then will I teach him how to stand properly."
Alena narrows her eyes. "Cedric, this is the dining table. Not a training ground."
I simply sit there in silence.
My legs dangle beneath the chair, not touching the floor. My eyes move back and forth between the two of them—one speaking of training and strength, the other of protection and proper timing.
One wants to make me strong… the other wants to keep me whole.
Both of them… are talking about me.
That is strange.
Truly strange.
I do not know whether I should nod… or pretend to excuse myself to the back for some reason. But my body remains here. Still. There is too much to understand… too many feelings that do not yet have names.
And for the first time in my life, this new life, I do not feel… late at the dining table.
What I know for certain: that man is named Cedric, and he… is my father in this world.
That realization comes slowly. Not like thunder, but more like a breath of wind seeping into bone. Quietly, yet changing everything.
Without realizing it, my lips curve into a small smile.
I look at them, Cedric and Alena, as if watching a family performance from behind glass. The difference is, this time I am not a spectator. I… am part of the stage.
And strangely… I do not mind.
The dining room is simple, yet warm. A large wooden table stands at the center of the room, its surface rough but clean, with three long benches surrounding it. In the corner near the wall, a red-brick stove still releases thin wisps of smoke, and a small window above it is left open, perhaps so the smoke does not gather and blacken the ceiling. Copper pots and clay plates are neatly arranged on a rack near the wall.
The ceiling of the house is made of thick wooden beams. Morning light enters through a small window on the western side, creating soft highlights that reflect off the packed earth floor and the sacks filled with dried wheat in the corner of the room.
Alena's clothing is simple: a pale brown cotton dress layered with a cream apron, lightly splashed with broth. Her hair is tied up in a bun, a few strands loose from the humidity of the stove.
Cedric, on the other hand, wears a dull linen shirt with a leather vest that looks worn from years of use. His trousers are made of coarse wool, and he wears a pair of tall boots that may once have belonged to a soldier.
He sits on the bench across from me, his large body leaning back casually like a deeply rooted tree. Alena looks at me briefly before placing a bowl of warm soup directly in front of me. Steam rises slowly, carrying the aroma of onions, roots, and gentle spices, an aroma that, for some reason, makes me feel at peace.
"Slowly, the soup is still hot," Alena says as she offers a small wooden spoon into my hand. Her tone is gentle, yet it does not lose its firmness.
"Don't rush. Your tongue isn't used to the heat yet," she adds.
I give a small nod.
"…Thank you… Mother."
The words leave my mouth just like that. Light. Simple. But for me, who had never spoken that word before, the word "Mother" feels like opening a door that has long been locked. Something flows within my chest. Warm… and heavy at the same time.
Alena merely smiles faintly, then turns back toward the stove. Her steps are slow and steady, as if she knows exactly where every stone and wooden plank lies.
When she reaches the fireplace that is beginning to die down, she kneels, gazes at the remaining ash at the bottom of the stove, then slowly raises her fingers.
She begins to recite something.
What…?
My eyes narrow, my ears sharpen.
Just now—was she truly speaking to… the stove?
Am I mad for thinking that? Or even more mad—because perhaps, it is actually happening?
Alena bends down slowly beside the stove. In her hands is a bundle of small wood and dry twigs taken from a basket at the side of the kitchen. She arranges them one by one into the mouth of the stove that is still cold.
Then she exhales—and begins to speak. Her voice is soft, like she is singing a lullaby to a baby.
"O flame that sleeps within the breast of the earth…"
I stiffen in my chair. My breathing immediately slows, as if my mind issues a command: Listen. Do not blink.
That sentence… sounds like part of a poem.
But no.
It is a spell.
Alena's hands begin to glow. Not in a poetic sense, they truly light up. The tips of her fingers emit a soft, yellowish glow, like a cluster of fireflies gathering in the spaces of her palms.
My heart stops for a second.
What the hell is that!?
My hands grip the edge of the bench. My mouth falls slightly open. Oxygen suddenly becomes something I must remind myself to inhale.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again. Quickly!
"…rise in the whisper of morning dew…"
The twigs inside the stove remain still, but the air around them… changes. As if it is resonating with her voice. As though this room is no longer a kitchen, but an altar.
I glance toward Cedric.
He is still sitting on the bench across from me, scooping soup slowly, without turning his head even slightly. Not surprised. Not reacting. Just chewing… as if all of this is completely ordinary.
So—this is normal? In this house?
And I am the only one staring like a country bumpkin seeing the capital for the first time?
"…become a light that does not burn…"
A VERSE!?
That was a verse, wasn't it!?
I almost stand up. Almost run out of the house screaming, "I AM NOT READY FOR THIS!!"
But my legs… do not move.
My body freezes. My eyes stare, barely blinking.
And right there in front of the stove—
"…but instead embrace the shivering soul."
Embers appear. As if answering the gentle call, glowing coals ignite slowly, creeping from beneath the wood into the spaces of the air. The fire does not roar. Does not explode. But… it crawls, calm, alive.
My hands tremble. Not from fear, but because… everything I understand about this world begins to collapse.
I thought I would learn how to hoe fields.
I thought I would have to learn to cook or weave mats.
But this?
This…
This is magic.
"Ignis, burn gently."
A single snap of Alena's fingers.
Whoosh.
The fire flares—brighter this time, yet still calm. Orange flames dance inside the stove, licking the air like a warm breath from a kitchen god.
I cannot stand. Not because I slip, not because I am tired—my knees give out. I sit on the floor, nearly sliding off the bench. My breath is short, my eyes wide, my body as if it has just witnessed the birth of a star from one meter away.
"That…" I whisper, barely audible, "that was magic just now, wasn't it…?"
And for the first time since I arrived in this world, I realize…
I am truly living in a world of magic.
This body… is too small. Too light. It feels like wearing a body that does not belong to me. Like putting on a child's costume while my mind is still full of adult problems.
How many days have I been here?
I am not even sure. Time in this world feels like it moves slowly, but my thoughts… keep running. I still remember that sinking feeling—dark, cold, and… then suddenly I was here.
This body is new. But my mind is not.
I used to be nineteen years old. I died at that age. Died… alone, if my memory is correct. And now? I have to learn how to stand again. Learn how to speak like a child. Learn how to eat without dropping the spoon.
I raise my hand. The fingers are small, clean. No ink stains from late-night exams, no cuts from slicing paper assignments. Only smooth palms that have not yet known the world. These are not my hands. But also… there are no other hands I can use.
I look toward the corner of the room. A wooden bucket filled with water is placed near a mop cloth. Maybe I could… help?
I grab the handle, trying to lift it.
"Urgh…"
Heavy. Heavy like carrying a five-liter water gallon with two fingers. The bucket rises only a centimeter before falling back down, spilling some water that splashes onto my feet.
I stare at these hands again. Slowly clenching them.
"Small body, small strength," I mutter quietly. "Remember that, Yusha."
I move toward the wall, to the dull metal plate mounted at an angle. There is no mirror in this house. But the blurry reflection is enough.
A small child. Messy brown hair. Round eyes, chubby cheeks. I stare at him for a long time… trying to understand that this is me now.
And somehow, another image rises from the corner of my memory. The old me—in a cramped, messy room, accompanied by cold coffee and exam deadlines. A thin body, tired eyes, yet still staring at the screen with whatever enthusiasm remained.
"I used to be… really stupid," I whisper.
I thought life could be conquered with good grades. I thought that as long as I worked hard, the world would give me a place.
In reality?
Well. I died young. Cast aside by the world. And now… alive again as a cute child aged… according to Alena, five years old.
My stomach growls. I look up at the ceiling and take a breath.
"At least hunger is consistent from one world to another."
Reluctantly, I leave the room. The wooden stairs creak every time my feet step on them. A simple sound, but for some reason it makes me feel… real. Each step seems to remind me: yes, this is your new body, this is your world now.
The sound of burning wood comes from the kitchen. Then the smell—warm and tempting. Broth. Onions. Spices.
My feet move on their own.
There, in the kitchen, I see her back.
Alena.
Her long hair is loosely tied with a worn cloth. Her work dress is soft in color, clinging to her slender body. Her hands are busy stirring the contents of a large pot—her movements calm and certain, like someone who has done this thousands of times… alone.
She does not turn around when I enter.
Or perhaps she actually notices my presence… but chooses to remain silent.
I walk slowly, then sit on the long bench near the wall. Quietly watching her.
Her face cannot be called beautiful in the sense of nobility or palace princesses, but there is something clean, gentle, and… whole about it. Like a river stone worn smooth by time—not perfect, yet possessing its own beauty.
Her eyes… eyes that look like they have cried for too long, yet still wake up every morning to cook breakfast.
She looks strong. Not because she never falls, but because she always chooses to stand again.
I do not know if I am truly her biological child. But this woman greets me every morning with the same things: warmth… and wheat bread.
And that is already more than enough.
Yet somehow, it still feels difficult… to call her "Mother."
Not because I hate her. No. But because I do not know how I am supposed to.
The villagers call her that. They believe I have been with her since infancy, raised by her. No one knows that I—now sitting on this wooden bench—once lived as a nineteen-year-old youth. Once grown. Once broken. Once dead.
Now… I cannot even open a jar lid without help.
From the way she speaks, from the look in her eyes—or more precisely, from the way she avoids direct eye contact—I can sense an invisible distance. She is not harsh. But neither is she indulgent. Not a wall that separates us, but a sheet of cold air that makes my steps hesitate to draw closer.
The wooden spoon taps softly against the side of the pot, then is placed on a cloth. She still does not speak. But her sigh—long, thin—tells many things. Like a fatigue she does not wish to admit.
Then, without turning around,
"If you only stare, the soup won't cook any faster, Yusha."
I flinch slightly. Surprised. And also embarrassed.
"A-ah… sorry."
The voice that comes out of my mouth sounds very small. I feel like a schoolchild caught daydreaming in the middle of a lesson.
"In the corner, there's a basin. Wash your hands first. Don't sit down to eat right away."
Her tone is not loud. Nor is it gentle. But firm enough that it cannot be argued against.
"Yes…"
I stand, walk slowly to the corner of the kitchen. The water in the basin feels cold, as if it has settled overnight. I dip my hands in, rubbing them slowly. The scent of herbal soap rises faintly. Strangely… the smell is calming.
When I return to the table, she is already standing in front of me. Carefully placing a bowl of hot soup before me. Steam rises, carrying the aroma of broth and spices.
Her hand accidentally brushes my shoulder as she offers the spoon.
I freeze.
That touch… is nothing. But also not nothing. Like a small ray of light slipping through a crack in a dark room. Not blinding. But enough to make me realize that I am not alone.
I turn my head slightly, stealing a glance.
She has already returned to the pot. Her face serious. Not cold, but… locked. As if there is something behind her gaze that cannot easily come out.
But just now, for an instant, I saw it.
Not overflowing affection. Not tenderness pouring freely. But fragments. Remnants of care that persist… quietly.
My hand trembles slightly as I grip the spoon.
"Mother…"
The word comes out softly. Faintly. Almost like a whisper.
"Mother…"
I repeat it, still with a hesitant voice. Perhaps because I myself do not yet know whether I deserve to say it.
She does not turn around immediately.
But her body stills. Just for a second. But enough for me to understand that she heard it. Then… her movements resume, the wooden spoon stirs the soup again, and the kitchen returns to how it was.
Even so, this morning felt different.
I lowered my head, gripping the spoon in my hand more tightly. The soup in the bowl steamed gently, yet my tongue felt dry.
Why… does my chest feel so heavy?
"Mother…" I repeated, this time more clearly. More firmly. My voice trembled slightly, but I did not look away.
This time, she turned toward me.
Alena did not answer right away. Her eyes met mine. Calm, but not empty.
"What is it, Yusha?"
I took a quick breath.
"Do… do you love me?"
Silence. For a moment, time stopped. I wanted to take those words back. Too childish. Too direct. But… that was truly what I wanted to ask.
Then, she answered.
"Yes."
One word. Gentle. Clear. Full of meaning.
I swallowed, then spoke softly,
"I… I love you very much too, Mother."
My head lifted slightly. I wanted to see—to know… was she smiling?
And yes. She was smiling.
Not a wide smile. Not cheerful laughter. Just a thin smile, yet warm. Like a blanket quietly tucked in when night arrives without a sound.
A smile that asked for nothing in return. Yet gave me the strength to face the next day.
"Do you really love Mother that much?" she asked in a gentle voice, like an adult inviting a child into an honest game.
I nodded quickly. Even though my throat felt tight, I still answered.
"Yes… I want to always be with Mother."
Before she could say anything, I lowered my head. And in the silence, an image from my former life passed through my mind.
I once had a mother too.
But… it was too complicated to call her that. She never brushed my hair. Never held me when I fell. Even the strongest memory I have of her is… when she stared at hospital bills and said—that the number on the paper was greater than me.
But now…
In this place.
In this small house.
With simple touches, and brief smiles…
I feel like I can grow.
Alena fell silent for a moment. Then, in a light tone with a hint of teasing, she said,
"Don't forget, with Father too, alright?"
And that morning… felt like the first time I truly woke up in this world.
After eating, I stepped outside the house. The morning air still bit at my skin, piercing through the thin clothes clinging to this small body. My breath formed faint mist in the air, and for a moment, I simply stood still at the doorway.
For some reason, my steps felt heavy. But not because of this body—rather because my destination was still unclear. What was it that I truly wanted to see?
Maybe… I just wanted to know what he was like. That man.
Cedric.
From a distance, he was clearly visible in the small courtyard overgrown with moss. His training clothes were already covered in dust, and in his hand was a wooden sword. He was training alone, surrounded by the cold morning air that did nothing to disturb his concentration.
His steps were steady. His swings were strong and fast, yet controlled. His body moved as one with the sword, like motions repeated thousands of times. There was diligence in that rhythm—not for display, but because it had become a part of him.
I stood beneath an old wooden pillar covered in fungi and moss, quietly watching.
"If you want to watch, at least sit down. Your little legs aren't strong enough to stand for too long."
The voice sounded light, as if it were merely a murmur. Yet the tone carried no surprise or haste—rather, it was warm and calm, like someone who had noticed my presence from the very beginning.
I was startled for a moment. But without saying much, I followed his words and sat on a flat stone. Its surface was cold, the chill creeping up to my waist, yet strangely, I felt more comfortable there than continuing to hide in silence.
"Sorry," I said softly, almost inaudible.
"There's no need to apologize just for wanting to see your own father," he replied, without turning around.
The words were simple, but… they felt strange. Something slowly melted in my chest, like a layer of ice beginning to thaw just from being touched by the morning sunlight.
Cedric continued his training. The wooden blade cut through the air in a steady, calm rhythm, like a dance he performed not to show strength, but to converse with his own body.
There was no fierce expression on his face, nor movements filled with pressure like a soldier on the battlefield. Instead, there was a gentleness difficult to explain in the way he moved his hands, as though the training itself was a form of contemplation.
After some time, he stopped. The wooden sword was lowered. His body stood straight, but not rigid. He lifted his head… and looked at the sky.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze. The wind blew softly, carrying the gentle scent of morning.
"The morning sky is always like this," he said quietly. "Calm. Even though beneath it, human hearts are often at war."
He did not look at me. His tone did not change. Yet from the way he stood, from the way he gazed at the sky… I knew there was something he was remembering.
"I had two friends," he continued. "One was too cautious, and the other liked to play with danger too much. Both of them… are gone now."
I lowered my head. I did not know what to say.
Cedric let out a soft breath. Then, slowly, he turned toward me.
But what appeared on his face was not sadness. It was a smile. Not a forced smile, but one born from the habit of comforting others… and perhaps, comforting himself as well.
"That's why I prefer to laugh," he said. "Because many of those who are gone… never got the chance to laugh one more time."
His steps were light as he approached. He crouched in front of me, looked closely at my face, then gave a small nod.
"You know, Yusha… being strong doesn't mean never being afraid. And smiling doesn't mean never feeling sad. I… just want to be a father you can look at without feeling frightened."
I froze. Unable to respond, unable to look away. His words were simple… yet every sentence felt like it shook the small world inside my heart.
Then, without warning, he stood up and turned his back to me. His back now faced me. He patted his shoulders.
"Get on."
I frowned. "Huh?"
"Get on," he repeated in a more cheerful voice. "Sitting too long on a stone might make you grow like moss. Besides, your father's back is warm enough, and still strong enough to carry one small child."
His voice was light, almost joking. But it did not feel like mockery. More like… an invitation.
Hesitantly, I stood and stepped forward. My hands touched his shoulders, and in an instant, my small body was on his back.
A broad back. Warm. And felt very… real.
I hugged him gently from behind. And for the first time, I felt something I had never possessed in my previous life.
Safety.
In my old world, the word "father" was nothing but a shadow filled with fear and shouting voices. No laughter. No arms to carry me. Only cold. Only wounds.
But Cedric…
On his back, I began to understand. Perhaps being a father is not about how much can be taught… but about how sincerely someone is present.
Cedric's quiet laughter was heard again.
"If one day you feel uncertain about the direction of your life, just remember one thing—that walking slowly is fine, as long as you don't stop."
I did not answer. But I think he knew I heard him.
Because on that laughing back… I began to learn.
About the warmth of a family.
About the role of a father.
And about how to keep walking, even when the world once stopped me.
His back swayed gently, stepping on slightly dew-covered ground. Between his calm steps, the sound of my own heartbeat echoed more loudly in my chest.
I hugged him tighter, as if holding onto something that could disappear at any moment.
Then, without realizing it… a question emerged. Not an ordinary question. Not one that could be easily discarded like dry leaves in the yard.
What if… I truly told him the truth?
What if I looked into his eyes and said, "Father, I am not actually Yusha. I am someone who has died… and somehow, I woke up in your child's body."
What would he do?
Would he turn his face away?
Would he stop talking to me?
Would he look at me with cold eyes and say, "You are not my child"?
Would he cast me away… like what happened in my previous life?
I don't know. I truly don't know. And that uncertainty—which for some might be just a small worry—has planted a great fear in my chest.
I am afraid.
Not afraid of Cedric. Not afraid of this world.
I am afraid… that the warmth I have felt all this time was not meant for me. That every smile, every embrace, every gently spoken word… was not meant for me, but for someone who is already gone.
Because I do not know—whether they love who I am now, or the person who once inhabited this body before.
Perhaps, to them… I am only a faint shadow of the child they loved. Perhaps I am merely a replacement who silently took the place of someone purer, more deserving… more loved.
Then, in that hanging silence, another question appeared. A question no less painful.
If one day they find out who I truly am… will they still hold me?
Or will they instead… push me away?
Yet strangely—despite all those doubts, I still felt something warm when I was with them.
Alena's gentle embrace. Her hands brushing my hair every morning, unhurried. Cedric's smile which, though often looking silly, never felt false. The way they called my name, without burden, without pressure.
They never forced me to be anyone. Never compared me to the past, nor asked for something I could not understand. They simply accepted me… as who I am now.
And if they are able to do that—accepting me without conditions, without coercion…
Then perhaps… I must also learn to accept them.
As my parents.
Not because I am forced to. Not because circumstances demand it.
But because… I want to.
Because for the first time since I came back to life… I want to believe.
That this house is truly my home.
That they are truly my family.
And that I, who once died, am finally allowed to live… once again.
---
End