The Battle of the Hook, one of the fiercest confrontations of the Korean War, raged through the rugged hills of Korea in April 1953. For days, artillery thundered across the narrow valleys, turning once-green slopes into muddy scars strewn with shattered trees and burnt-out villages.
In that brutal conflict, the United Nations forces — Canadians, Australians, and New Zealanders among them — held their ground against relentless waves of Chinese troops. The Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry, barely six hundred men strong, faced thousands through cold nights and endless shellfire.
Among them was Sergeant Leon Sabourin, a 22-year-old from Montreal. Calm under fire, fiercely loyal to his men, he had earned a quiet reputation for courage. On the third night of fighting, while leading a counterassault up a smoke-choked ridge, a burst of enemy fire struck him down.
When he next opened his eyes, the thunder of battle was gone. He lay in a dimly lit field hospital near Busan, bandaged and weak. The steady hum of generators filled the air, mingling with the faint sound of rain against canvas tents. A nurse moved quietly beside him, checking his pulse with practiced precision.
Unbeknownst to anyone, Leon's body had become host to another soul — one from a different time.
At first, confusion consumed him. Two consciousnesses coexisted within a single mind, tangled and uneasy. But as the days passed, Leon began to accept his strange new reality.
His recovery was nothing short of miraculous. The wound that should have taken weeks to mend closed in days. There was no infection, no fever — only an unnatural speed that defied medical logic. He said nothing, suspecting it was tied to the strange merging of souls.
The doctors chalked his symptoms up to combat fatigue and prescribed rest, sedatives, and a future psychiatric evaluation in Vancouver. Within a week, Leon was walking again. He volunteered to help in the ward — carrying supplies, propping up stretchers, steadying wounded men during emergency operations.
There was comfort in the work. Amid helping others, he found clarity.
Weeks later, word of the armistice spread through the camp. The guns fell silent; the war was finally over. There were no cheers, only quiet relief. Soon after, orders came for transport. The wounded fit to travel would be sent home. Leon was among them.
He boarded a military transport plane bound for Vancouver. The long flight over the Pacific was cold and silent. When the aircraft finally descended toward the coast, Leon felt a mix of relief and unease. It was the Canada he knew — yet somehow, not the same.
At a recovery center overlooking the harbor, Leon spent his mornings exercising lightly and his afternoons assisting the orderlies. The work kept his mind still. By the time he was discharged, his body had fully healed — though his soul still felt divided.
The report listed him as suffering from mild post-combat fatigue. With his papers in hand, Leon stepped out into the crisp Vancouver air, the wind carrying the faint scent of sea salt.
He wanted to walk, to see the old Canada he knew only from books and photographs. The city felt quieter, older — a world both familiar and foreign. As he wandered through narrow streets, his thoughts drifted between two lifetimes.
Then, faint footsteps echoed behind him.
Before he could turn, a heavy blow struck the back of his head.
Darkness swallowed everything.
---
"Splash! Splash!"
Waking from the darkness, Leon felt dizzy, his head pounding like a drum. The world around him was grey and blurred, the salty smell of the sea filling his nose.
He was lying on a cold, wet beach. The sound of waves crashed nearby, and his mouth was full of sand and seawater.
"Ugh…" He coughed violently, spitting water and bile, his throat raw and burning.
When he tried to move, pain exploded in the back of his skull. His fingers brushed against a sticky patch of half-dried blood. Someone had hit him — hard.
Bits and pieces of memory returned in flashes: a dim alley, muffled footsteps, a sudden impact — then nothing. His wallet, his watch, even his shoes were gone. He'd been robbed and dumped like trash.
"Those bastards…" he muttered weakly.
He forced himself to sit up, the dizziness making the world tilt. Dawn broke over the horizon, painting the sea in orange and pink hues.
Then came voices — faint, distant.
"Oh! Grandma, there's someone there!" a girl called.
"Must be a city man," an older woman replied. "Bet he got mugged somewhere near Kitsilano. Tide must've dragged him all the way here to Steveston. Poor soul."
Steveston… Leon blinked. So he was still in Vancouver. Barely alive, but alive nonetheless.
He turned toward the voices. Two figures approached — a young girl and an older woman, both plainly dressed.
"Oh! He moved — he's still alive!" the girl gasped, clutching her grandmother's arm. She looked fourteen or fifteen, her sun-darkened skin and bright eyes full of worry.
The older woman frowned but stepped closer. "Young man, are you alright? Did someone rob you?"
Leon tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. The woman sighed softly. "Come, get up. You'll catch cold lying there. We'll get you something warm to eat."
He hesitated only a moment before nodding weakly. She helped him up, and the girl steadied his other arm.
"My name's Anne Clarke," the girl said shyly. "You can call me Annie."
Leon managed a faint, grateful smile. "Thank you… both of you."