Shades of indigo opened to the sight of warm eyes and a smile charged with affection. His mother's pale skin was dusted with a light blush and a thin sheen of sweat. He could feel the weight of her slow, steady breaths—a calm rhythm that pulled him into her space.
"Kira, isn't he beautiful?" she whispered.
A deep baritone rumbled from behind her. "He is. He has your nose. Your eyes, too."
"Don't forget your frown," she joked.
A tall figure moved into view, a toned frame topped with dark blue hair. He leaned in, his shadow soft and protective. "Regardless, he's beautiful. The perfect mix of us."
"Can I see him now? Can I?" A smaller voice chirped from the side.
"Yes, Yuka. Say hello to your little brother, Hisagi."
A small head of black hair peeked over their mother's lap. A miniature version of the woman had appeared, her dimples reflecting that same heat. She reached out to catch his tiny hand, a giggle escaping her lips.
"He's so small."
"You were just like this once, honey," the mother said, doting on the girl as much as the infant in her arms.
Hisagi was overwhelmed. He remembered the life he'd led before waking up here: a hollow, lonely existence. He'd been an orphan with a chronic disease that stripped away his movement and his time. His only taste of the world had been through wheelchair strolls guided by nurses. His days were measured in manga chapters, TV shows, and music. He'd had no friends, no family; anyone he grew close to eventually died behind a hospital curtain.
The contrast between seventeen years of cold suffering and this blinding warmth brought tears to his eyes. Maybe his one-sided prayers had finally hit their mark. Maybe the gods had granted him the life he'd always wanted—one where he could come home to the smell of real food, banter with siblings, and feel the weight of a parent's love.
"Aww, don't cry, sweetheart," his mother cooed, noticing the dampness on his cheeks. She pressed soft kisses onto his face. Her arms swayed to a slow, lulling rhythm until his eyelids grew heavy.
"Look at how fast he fell asleep, Mom. He's so cute!"
"Keep your voice down, honey."
"Sorry," Yuka whispered. "Can I sleep beside him? I promise I won't move."
"Of course you can."
HHHHHH
He woke to the sight of an old hardwood ceiling. His parents had formed a makeshift barrier around him, their soft snores vibrating through the bed.
They weren't rich. He could feel the stiffness of the floor beneath the futon, and the sparse room reflected a quiet, daily struggle. He didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the heat of the bodies around him. He looked at the girl next to him; she couldn't have been more than five. Her small hand still covered his, and she murmured in her sleep, a goofy smile plastered on her face.
His eyes closed again, the sweet embrace of sleep enveloping him once more.
HHHHHH
He woke again when his father got up for work. The man was a laborer for a local construction crew—a blue-collar worker of the Heian era.
Hisagi watched his father's silhouette slip out the door. The clothes, the tools, the architecture—everything told him he wasn't in modern Japan. Artifacts that would have been behind museum glass in his old life were common household items here.
Soft hands lifted him from the bed. He had already begun to associate her touch with absolute safety.
"Are you awake now, my love?" she teased.
He tried his best to play the part, offering the giggles and gibberish expected of a babe. Her face lit up. Maybe she sensed he understood her, or maybe she was just a proud mother. Either way, as he looked at her, Hisagi made a silent vow. He would work. He would grow. And he would protect this warmth at any cost.