The fire spread faster than Marcus had ever imagined possible.
One moment he had been checking the temperature of the fermentation tanks, thinking about small adjustments to his latest batch, and the next the sharp smell of smoke filled the air. At first, he thought something minor had burned in the back storage room. But within seconds, the smoke grew thicker, heavier, and darker. It rolled along the ceiling of the winery like a storm cloud trapped indoors.
Someone shouted for water. Someone else screamed but they sounded far away.
Marcus turned toward the oak barrels stacked along the wall. Years of work were inside them. Years of testing sugar levels, balancing acidity, studying yeast strains, learning patience. The fire reached the shelves of bottled wine first. Glass began to burst from the heat. Corks popped violently. Red wine spilled across the floor and sizzled as flames crawled over it.
The smell hurt him more than the heat. Burned oak. Scorched fruit. Alcohol turning to smoke.
He coughed and tried to move forward, but a beam above him cracked loudly. Sparks rained down. His skin felt tight from the heat pressing in on all sides.
His mind did not think about money. It did not think about fame.
It thought about the last bottle he had tasted.
It had been close to perfect. Smooth on the tongue. Deep, but not too heavy. He had only needed a little more time. A few more adjustments.
He had promised himself he would finish it this year.
The ceiling gave way before he could take another step.
The world collapsed into heat and light.
And then there was nothing.
**
When Marcus opened his eyes again, he expected pain.
Instead, he felt a soft blanket over his body and cool air against his face.
He stared at a wooden ceiling. The beams were rough and uneven. Sunlight came through a small window, landing across the bed in a thin golden line.
He did not move at first. He simply breathed.
There was no smoke.
No sirens.
No fire.
He slowly lifted his hand into the light.
It was small.
Too small.
His fingers were thin, almost fragile. His arm looked like that of a child.
His heart began to beat faster. He sat up quickly, but dizziness forced him to steady himself against the wall. The room was simple. A narrow bed. A wooden dresser. A clay water jug on a stool. The walls were plain and worn, as if they had been repaired many times.
A knock came at the door.
"Marcus?" a woman's voice called gently. "Are you awake?"
He froze.
The name felt familiar, yet distant.
"Yes," he answered carefully.
The sound of his own voice startled him. It was higher than it should have been. Younger.
The door opened, and a woman stepped inside. She looked to be in her early thirties. Her brown hair was tied back, and her apron showed signs of long hours of work. Her face carried both kindness and exhaustion.
Behind her stood a tall man with broad shoulders and tired eyes. His hands were large and rough, the hands of someone who carried heavy things every day.
The woman walked to the bed and placed her palm against Marcus's forehead.
"Your fever has gone down," she said with relief. "Thank goodness."
The man let out a breath. "You had us worried last night."
Marcus looked between them.
They were strangers.
And yet, something deep inside him recognized them as his parents.
Memory did not come in clear images. It came as feelings. The sound of their voices downstairs. The smell of stew cooking. The feeling of being carried when he was too weak to walk.
He was not just in another place.
He was in another life.
"Where am I?" he asked quietly.
His mother smiled gently. "You're at home. In your room. You must still be tired."
From below the room came noise—boots on wood, chairs scraping, people talking loudly. A mug slammed against a table, followed by laughter.
Marcus noticed something else.
He smelled alcohol.
Not wine.
Ale.
The scent drifted up the stairs clearly. It was sour and thin. The grain had not been roasted properly. The fermentation had been rushed. The yeast had likely been stressed by poor temperature control. Even without seeing it, he could tell it lacked depth and balance.
His nose reacted before his mind could stop it.
He frowned.
His father noticed. "What is it?"
Marcus hesitated, then pushed himself out of bed. His legs trembled as he stood. This body was weak. He felt as though he had been sick for a long time.
His mother tried to stop him. "You should rest."
"I'm fine," he said, though he was not entirely sure that was true.
He slowly walked down the narrow staircase, holding the railing for support. When he reached the bottom, he saw the tavern.
It was modest but not unpleasant. Wooden tables filled the room. A stone fireplace burned quietly in one corner. Shelves behind the counter held bottles and mugs. Several adventurers sat scattered around the room, wearing armor and carrying weapons. Some had small cuts or bruises. Their expressions showed fatigue more than joy.
Marcus watched as his father poured ale from a barrel into a mug.
Foam rose quickly, then settled flat.
The smell confirmed what he had already sensed.
It was drinkable, but it was not good.
The adventurers drank because they were thirsty and tired. Not because the drink offered comfort or care.
His father leaned toward him. "Business hasn't been strong lately," he said quietly. "We buy what we can afford."
There was no excuse in his voice, only honesty.
Marcus looked around the room again.
The tavern was not failing because of laziness.
It was struggling because it lacked something special.
Something crafted with patience.
His chest tightened.
In his old life, wine had been more than alcohol. It had been something that brought people together. It had been warmth after a long day. It had been celebration and healing in liquid form.
He had died before finishing his greatest creation.
But his knowledge was still here.
His senses were still sharp.
He looked at the empty space behind the counter where better bottles could stand.
Then he looked up at his parents.
"I can help," he said.
His mother chuckled softly. "You can help by getting stronger first."
He shook his head slightly. "Not like that. I mean with the drinks."
His father raised an eyebrow. "You?"
"Yes," Marcus replied.
The confidence in his voice surprised even him.
"I know how to make something better. Not ale. Wine."
The word hung in the air.
His parents exchanged a confused glance.
"Wine is expensive," his father said carefully. "And hard to make properly."
Marcus nodded.
"I know."
He did not explain how he knew. He could not.
But inside, something had already settled into place.
He had been given another life.
Another chance.
This tavern might be small. This body might be weak.
But he would not waste this opportunity.
"I will make a wine so good," he said quietly, "that people will come here just to taste it."
The tavern noise continued around them, unaware that anything had changed.
But for Marcus, everything had.
He had lost his masterpiece once.
He would not lose it again.