Two years and two months have passed.
The seasons have turned, the snow has melted, and the world has thawed. It is currently early spring. The air is fresh, smelling of wet earth and blooming wildflowers.
A lot has happened.
I have finally started to speak. I can speak pretty fluently now, and I can walk without looking like a drunkard stumbling home from a tavern. In fact, I probably speak a little too well for a three-year-old. I have to constantly catch myself. It takes a lot of mental effort to filter my vocabulary. Just yesterday, I almost told Roxas that the structural integrity of a chair leg looked "compromised." I had to bite my tongue and switch it to "wobbly."
My parents have noticed how fast I pick things up. They don't know the truth, of course. They just praise me constantly, looking at each other with wide, beaming eyes, convinced they have birthed a genius.
"He's so smart, Sylvia. Did you hear him ask for water? He used a full sentence!"
I try to stay quiet mostly, just nodding or using simple words to keep the illusion intact.
Physically, I have conquered my greatest enemy, the stairs. I can now navigate the house with ease.
My room has gone through a complete transformation. The crib is gone, replaced by a "big boy" bed. Naturally, Roxas built it himself. It is made of smooth, pale ash wood, sturdy enough to hold a grown man but sized perfectly for me. The headboard has intricate carvings of leaves and vines that seem to wind around the posts.
On the wall opposite my bed, there is a sturdy oak shelf. That is where the Flit lives. The wooden squirrel-bird hybrid sits there, its wings dusted and polished, watching over the room like a guardian.
But despite my "genius" status, there is a problem I didn't anticipate.
The brain.
My mind is sixteen. My memories are clear. But my hardware? My hardware is three. And a three-year-old brain is a chaotic, chemical mess.
It happened at lunch yesterday.
I was sitting in my high chair, eating a bowl of stewed pears. I was enjoying them. They were sweet, soft, and warm. I reached out with my wooden spoon to scoop up the last piece. The biggest, juiciest slice in the bowl.
My hand twitched.
The spoon clipped the edge of the bowl. The pear slice catapulted into the air, performed a slow-motion backflip, and landed with a wet plap on the dirty floorboards.
I stared at it.
It's fine, my adult brain said. It's just a piece of fruit. I can wash it off, or just eat another one.
But then, the chemicals hit.
A wave of absolute, crushing devastation washed over me. My lip started to tremble. My chest tightened. It felt like I had just lost the World Series. It felt like my dog had died.
Don't cry, I told myself. You are a high school athlete. You are mentally an adult. Do not cry over a pear.
"My pear..." I whispered.
Then, the dam broke.
"WAAAAAAH!"
I threw my head back and screamed. Tears shot out of my eyes like a cartoon character. I slammed my hands on the tray of the high chair. I wasn't just sad; I was enraged. The injustice of gravity! The cruelty of the floor!
"Percy? Oh no, did you drop it?" Sylvia rushed over, wiping her hands on a towel.
"I WANTED THAAAT OOOONE!" I shrieked, my voice cracking.
Inside, my rational mind was horrified. Stop it! Shut up! You look ridiculous! It's a fruit!
But I couldn't stop. The toddler brain had seized the controls. I cried for five minutes straight. I cried until I got the hiccups. Even after Sylvia washed the pear and gave it back to me, I was still sniffling, feeling a deep, lingering sense of emotional betrayal.
It was humiliating. It was a stark reminder that while I might have my memories, I was still a prisoner to the biology of a child.
To escape the humiliation of the Pear Incident, I've started making regular trips to the village with Roxas. He usually takes me to the shop a few times a week to watch him work.
It is fascinating.
Roxas is a master. I realized that early on, but watching him work up close is different. He takes on everything from large dining tables for the village council to small, delicate jewelry boxes for the merchants' wives. He never cuts corners. He treats the back of a drawer, a part no one will ever see, with the same level of detail as the front face.
I am currently sitting on a high stool near the workbench, my short legs dangling above the floor. I watch him intently.
He is planing a long plank of cedar.
He doesn't just push the tool. It starts in his feet.
I watch his stance. His feet are shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. As he prepares the stroke, he shifts his weight to his back leg, loading the potential energy. Then, he drives forward. The power travels up his legs, rotates through his hips, locks into his core, and finally transfers into his arms and the tool.
Shhhh-thwip.
A long, paper-thin curl of wood peels away, smelling of lemon and resin.
It's the exact same mechanic as pitching. The wind-up, the drive, the release. If you try to throw a ball using just your arm, you'll blow out your shoulder. If you try to plane wood using just your biceps, you'll tire out in an hour. Roxas uses his whole body. He uses the earth.
"See how the grain runs, Percy?" Roxas asks, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. He points to the dark lines running through the timber. "You never fight the grain. You work with it. If you fight it, the wood splits. If you guide it, it becomes smooth."
I nod, absorbing it all. "Like throwing a curve," I mutter to myself. "Don't force the spin."
"What was that?" Roxas asks, smiling.
"Nothing, Dad. It looks smooth."
Suddenly, the bell above the door jingles.
Roxas looks up, blowing sawdust off the wood.
A man walks in.
I analyze him instantly. He appears to be around my father's age, perhaps a few years older. He has a striking appearance: his hair is a deep, dark grey, almost like charcoal, which contrasts sharply with his warm brown eyes. He isn't massive like the blacksmith or broad like my father; he is of average height and build.
But he doesn't look weak.
He moves with a quiet economy of motion. His steps are silent on the wooden floor. There is a wiry, compact strength to him, the kind that comes from endurance rather than brute force.
He is dressed well, better than the average farmer. He wears a crisp, cream-colored linen shirt tucked into dark trousers, with a well-oiled leather vest over it. He carries himself with a calm, confident posture, shoulders back, chin up.
"Ahh, Soldat. Good to see you." Roxas puts down his hand plane and walks around the workbench.
"Hey, Roxas." Soldat's voice is smooth and steady. "I was just passing by. I wanted to thank you again. Elise has been loving the furniture and built-ins you installed."
I watch the interaction closely. Elise. That must be his wife. This man, Soldat, seems to be a regular customer, likely one of the wealthier ones given the quality of his clothes.
"No problem at all. I'm glad she likes them."
Soldat nods, his gaze sweeping the room. He checks the other pieces on display, his eyes sharp. He notices the joinery. He notices the finish. This is a man who pays attention to details.
Then, his eyes land on me.
He blinks, clearly surprised to see a toddler perched on a stool like a foreman, analyzing him with a critical stare.
"Who is this little guy here?"
He starts to walk over, his boots clicking softly on the wood floor. He looks down at me with a gentle smile, the kind adults usually reserve for pets or very small children.
Roxas beams, placing a heavy, proud hand on my shoulder. "That's my son, Percival. He's a very helpful little guy, aren't you, Percy?"
I look up at Soldat.
My first instinct is to wave and giggle. That's what a three-year-old does. That's the safe play.
But something about this man makes me want to stand taller. He isn't looking at me like I'm a potato. He's looking at me with genuine curiosity.
I slide off the stool, landing on my feet with a small thud. I stand up straight, brushing the sawdust off my trousers.
"The name's Soldat Grimgrove."
He extends a hand toward me. It's a gesture meant for an adult, likely a joke to entertain the baby. He expects me to grab his thumb, or maybe high-five him.
I treat it with absolute seriousness.
I reach out and grab his hand. My hand is tiny, barely wrapping around two of his fingers. I can't squeeze hard. I have the grip strength of a hamster but I don't let that stop me. I hold his hand firmly.
I lock my eyes onto his.
"Hello, Soldat. It is a pleasure to meet you."
My voice is high-pitched. I have a slight lisp on the 's'. But my enunciation is crisp. I don't look at the floor. I don't fidget. I look him directly in the eye with the confidence of a man who has stared down a batter in the bottom of the ninth.
Soldat freezes.
His eyebrows shoot up. The playful smile vanishes from his face, replaced by a look of genuine, unsettled surprise. He looks from his hand to my face, searching for... something.
He expected a baby. He was a tiny adult.
"That's... quite the greeting," he chuckles, though the sound is a little breathless. There is a hint of confusion in his eyes. He studies me for a second longer than necessary, as if trying to solve a puzzle. "How old are you, Percival?"
I pause. Don't say sixteen.
I calculate the date in my head instantly. "I am exactly three years, three months, and one week old."
The silence in the shop hangs for a second.
Too specific? Yeah, probably too specific. Most kids would just hold up three fingers.
But Soldat just laughs, a hearty sound that breaks the tension. He shakes his head, looking at Roxas with a mixture of disbelief and admiration.
"Sharp mind on this one, Roxas. Very sharp. You might have your hands full."
He looks back down at me, his expression softening into something thoughtful. He isn't just seeing a carpenter's son anymore. He sees potential.
"I have a daughter around the same age as you. Maybe one day you'll meet her."
I pause, thinking about that. A daughter... well, I haven't really seen anyone my age around here. I'll see the occasional kid running around the village, but they are usually older.
A person my age... I never thought about it really. Back in my old life, I didn't really have any close friends outside of the team. Baseball was my life. Maybe this is the opportunity to make one. A real friend.
"Well then, Roxas, I best be going." Soldat gives my hand one last pat before letting go. He straightens up, turning back to the door. "Nice meeting you, young man."
"See you later, Soldat." Roxas waves.
I climb back onto my stool and watch him leave.
Soldat Grimgrove. Interesting guy. He didn't treat me like a baby after the handshake. I like him already.
***
The day continued.
After the shop closed, we walked home. The sun was setting, painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and purple.
I walked beside Roxas, holding his hand. I was feeling good. I hadn't cried over any fruit. I had impressed a nobleman.
We reached our cottage. The yard was lush and green, the oak trees fully canopied.
"Why don't you play in the yard for a bit while I help your mother with dinner?" Roxas asked, unlatching the gate.
"Okay!"
I ran into the yard. The grass felt cool and soft against my legs.
I sat down in the middle of the lawn, leaning back on my palms. I closed my eyes for a moment, listening to the wind rustling the leaves of the oak trees near the fence. It was peaceful.
Then, the birds went silent.
It wasn't a gradual quiet. It was instant. The chirping of the sparrows, the cawing of the crows it all just cut out.
A shadow fell over me.
It was a massive shadow, moving fast, blotting out the sun.
I opened my eyes and looked up.
My heart stopped.
It wasn't a cloud. It wasn't a bird.
It was a monster.
Soaring incredibly high near the cloud layer, a silhouette cut across the azure canvas of the sky. Even from this distance, the sheer scale of it was undeniable. It was huge.
I squinted, trying to bring it into focus. It has a long, sinuous body and a massive wingspan that seemed to stretch for forty feet.
No way.
I sat up straighter in the grass, my breath hitching.
That can't be.
I rubbed my eyes aggressively with my fists, blinking away the sunspots, and shook my head. Maybe I've been staring at the light too long. Maybe my toddler brain is hallucinating.
I looked up again.
The shape was still there.
It is a wyvern. There is no doubt about it. I know my fantasy beasts. I played enough RPGs with my dad to know the difference between a dragon (four legs) and a wyvern (two legs and wings).
As it glided lower for a brief moment, dipping below a wisp of cloud, the sunlight hit it.
I gasped.
I could see the scales. They were a deep, emerald green that shimmered like polished armor plates. Its body was muscular and serpentine, built for aerodynamics, ending in a long, whip-like tail that trailed behind it like a rudder. It didn't have front legs, just those colossal, leathery wings that caught the thermals.
It looked terrifying. It was clearly a predator, an apex beast that could snatch a cow or a person without slowing down.
But it was also breathtaking.
It flew with a lazy, powerful grace. It didn't flap frantically like a bird; it glided, banking smoothly against the air currents. It looked peaceful up there, a king surveying its domain.
It continued its trajectory, flying North, heading straight toward the jagged, snow-capped mountain range on the distant horizon. I watched it until it became a speck, and then nothing at all.
I let out a long breath I didn't know I was holding.
Yeah.
I looked down at my tiny hands. I looked at the wooden cottage. I looked at the mountains where a giant green reptile had just flown.
I am definitely not on Earth anymore.
***
About a week passes.
I never mention the wyvern to my parents. I figure it's best to keep it to myself. If a toddler starts ranting about "giant reptiles in the sky," they'll just think I have an overactive imagination, or that I need more sleep.
I continue my routine, helping Sylvia with the small chores I am capable of doing.
Then comes the night.
I am fast asleep in my bed, buried under my quilt, dreaming of a game where the baseball is made of crystal.
Thump. Creak.
A noise pulls me out of the dream. My eyes snap open. The room is dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the window. I lie still, listening.
Creak... Creak…
It's a rhythmic sound. It happens every couple of nights, usually around this time. I sigh, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I assume someone is up, maybe getting water or checking the locks on the front door.
Then I hear a noise that definitely isn't a lock turning.
It's a moan. A breathless, strangled sound.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I slide out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cool wooden floorboards. I tiptoe to my door and slowly turn the handle. It clicks softly, and I pull it open just a crack.
I slip into the hallway. It's pitch black. I make my way down the hall, moving past the two empty guest bedrooms. I am careful not to make a sound, placing my feet deliberately to avoid the squeaky floorboard I discovered last week.
As I get closer to the end of the hall, to Roxas and Sylvia's room, the sounds become clearer.
Creak. Creak. CREAK.
The bed frame is groaning under a significant amount of movement. It's fast. Intense.
Then, a voice.
"Roxas... mmm..."
My blood runs cold.
Then comes a low, guttural groan from my father, deep and primal, followed by a sharp, high-pitched cry from Sylvia that she quickly stifles. The sounds are... heavy. Wet.
I freeze in the hallway.
Oh. Oh no.
I'm sixteen mentally. I know exactly what is happening there. And judging by the sounds of Sylvia's breathless pleading and the sheer ferocity of the bed frame slamming against the wall, they are going at it hard.
A flush of heat rushes to my face. Part of my brain, the hormonal teenager part that hasn't vanished just because I'm in a toddler's body, is suddenly very awake. My imagination starts to run wild. Sylvia is... well, she's beautiful. And Roxas is a beast of a man.
I shake my head violently in the dark.
No. Stop. It. Gross.
I squeeze my eyes shut. That's my mom. Well, this world's mom. But still. That is a line I do not need to cross.
I turn on my heel, my face burning in the darkness. I quietly head back to my room, stepping as lightly as a ghost.
As I close my door and lean against it, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
A sibling, huh?
If they keep going like that, I'm definitely going to have a little brother or sister soon.
I shuffle back to my bed and climb in, pulling the covers up to my chin. I try to scrub my brain with thoughts of baseball stats, visualizing ERA calculations and batting averages, but the rhythmic thumping is still faintly audible through the wall.
I roll over, burying my face in the pillow to drown out the noise.
"Go to sleep, Percy," I whisper to myself. "Just go to sleep."