I closed my eyes. The forest breathed around me, and I began my 2-day meditation trial.
At first, the meditation was easy; my concentration was sharp. I had full control of my body as I ignored every itch and sensation that I was feeling. Then minutes passed by, which turned to a few hours and eventually several.
I don't know when exactly it happened, but I lost consciousness.
A suffocating void stood before me. An endless emptiness that had swallowed me like when I first landed in this world.
This darkness was quiet, neutral, and gentle. Quite the opposite of what you would expect. I would never get used to this.
Trying to regain a fragment of control, I focused all my strength on controlling my body.
My breathing slowed. The warmth of the hollow beneath me faded into the background, and the scent of earth and bark dissolved as if I were sinking beneath water.
Then the darkness thinned. A cloudy shadow replaced it, misting the black empty void as if transferring me to another realm of time. This too eventually cleared up, leaving behind a pure layer of white. A white, desolate land.
Snow.
Snow fell in thick, heavy clusters, relentless and without rhythm. It did not drift elegantly, nor pour down in uneven heaps. The very presence of it was as though the clouds were sick and coughing out everything they had stored too long. The sky churned with grey heaviness while the world below disappeared under layers and layers of white.
I looked down. My gecko body had disappeared, instead being replaced with small human hands. There was a strange sense of connection to this dream, yet I couldn't help but notice that this was not me in the slightest. Well, at least not what I remembered of my childhood memories.
My breath caught. I tried to move my hands deliberately, but the movement that followed was not mine. The fingers flexed, but not because I commanded them. I felt them move on their own, as if they were autonomous and I was just a spectator watching the experience like a film.
I could see, hear, taste, and feel, yet oddly enough, not control anything. The feeling was surreal.
I was inside this body, observing. Watching through the eyes of a child.
"Mum, Mum, look!" the boy's voice rang out, bright and hopeful. "It's my snowman! What do you think?"
The sound vibrated through a chest that was not my own. I felt the warmth of excitement rising from somewhere deep within him. A need for approval so pure it hurt.
Silence answered.
"Mum?"
The boy turned. I turned with him. Snow stretched endlessly across the forest floor. Trees loomed in pale silence, their branches sagging under the weight. The world felt muted, sound swallowed by the storm.
Then I saw her.
A shadow a few metres away, partially obscured by falling snow. A tall woman. Long jet-black hair with red-highlighted streaks spilling from beneath a hood. A fur coat brushing against her legs as she walked deeper into the snow-filled forest.
Even without seeing her face, the boy knew.
That was his mother.
Relief flared in his chest, quick and bright. But confusion followed immediately. Why was she so far away? Why had she moved deeper into the trees?
"Mum!" he called again.
The storm swallowed the sound.
She did not stop or turn to look back at her crying son. It wasn't like she couldn't hear him. The child was bellowing and screaming for his mother while frantically giving chase. Yet she continued walking anyway, marching through the snow without turning back for even a second.
A strange unease crept up the boy's spine, and I felt it as if it were my own. He raised his voice again, louder this time, desperation sharpening the edges.
"Mum! I'm over here!"
Still nothing.
Maybe she could not hear. Maybe the snow and wind drowned him out. Maybe she thought he was right behind her. She would never abandon him. That thought did not even form fully before he shook his head, trying to cast it away.
You silly boy, she's not going to hear you.
The boy began to look over the memories about his mother. Me being connected, I could feel everything. His mother was kind. She laughed at his clumsy jokes. She held his hand when he was frightened. She made warm meals when the world outside felt cruel. She would not leave him.
He started running faster.
I felt the strain of small legs pushing through thick snow, boots sinking too deep with each step. His breathing grew uneven. His father had left when he was young. That memory hovered faintly in the background, heavy and unresolved. His mother was everything. Not just a parent. Everything.
Other children had called him names. Freak. Cursed. Bad luck. The horror child. Words sharp enough to carve into bone. Words a child was never meant to carry. He had endured them. He always endured them. Because he had her.
The shadow moved further.
The distance widened with cruel efficiency. Each second felt stolen.
He hesitated for just a moment, caught between choices. Should he stop shouting and run faster? Should he stop running and scream louder? Should he return to the snowman and wait, trusting she would come back?
Every second of indecision cost him ground.
He screamed.
With everything he had.
"MUM!"
His throat burned. His lungs felt scraped raw. The sound tore through the air with such force that it should have reached her.
She did not turn.
The shadow became smaller. Then smaller still. Eventually, she was no more than a speck against the snow-filled forest.
And then she was gone.
The boy stopped moving.
Snow gathered on his hair. On his coat. On his eyelashes. He stood perfectly still, as if refusing to move would undo what had happened. Tears welled up. At first only a few. Then more. They slid down his cheeks, freezing in the bitter cold before falling.
He told himself he was not crying.
He was not. He just could not see clearly.
That night, a child stood alone in the snow.
And I stood inside him, helpless.
I woke violently.
The root hollow snapped back into existence around me. Dirt walls. Bark slab. Warm earth. My body was drenched in sweat. It pooled beneath my scales and clung uncomfortably to my limbs.
But the sweat did not matter.
The feeling did.
That had not been a simple dream. It had texture. Weight. Emotion layered so thick it pressed against my ribs. I could still feel the cold. Still feel the panic. The hollow dread of watching someone disappear and not being able to stop it.
Was that a memory? But it had nothing to do with my previous life? Maybe it was someone else's?
I did not remember snow like that. I did not remember that woman. Yet the ache in my chest felt deeply personal, like something long buried had been unearthed without permission.
I swallowed and forced myself to breathe slowly. Focus on something tangible.
Blink. Blink again.
There, drifting in the air around me, were strands.
Thin, translucent threads weaving through my hollow in every direction. Some shimmered faintly blue. Others silver. A few glowed with a muted gold hue. They moved independently, crossing paths without ever colliding.
Mana.
Atmospheric mana.
It seemed that two days of forced meditation had gone by in the time that I had endured this dream.
Truly weird.
Ignoring the problems and issues that I couldn't fix, I concentrated on my small victory. I had learnt how to use mana. A small surge of satisfaction flickered in my chest.
Progress. Real progress was made.
"System," I said quietly, "I can see them."
[Observation confirmed.]
I studied the strands carefully. They drifted lazily, unconcerned with my presence. Curious, I extended a claw toward one. My claw passed straight through it without resistance, like touching smoke.
So I could perceive mana, but not interact with it.
Step one complete. Step two still distant.
I steadied myself and closed my eyes again, though faint afterimages of the strands lingered even behind my lids. The dream still clung to me, heavy and unresolved, but perhaps that was part of the process. Mana seemed tied to perception. To awareness. To something deeper than simple mechanics.
If the snow had taught me anything, it was that emotion left imprints.
And maybe mana flowed strongest through cracks.
I slowed my breathing and sank back into meditation, focusing not on loss, not on fear, but on the quiet threads drifting invisibly through the world. This time, I did not chase the memory.
I reached for the strands instead.