When I first opened my eyes again in this world, I expected something divine. You know, celestial glow, maybe a choir of ethereal voices welcoming me to my second chance. At the very least, a dramatic sunrise.
What I got instead?
Wool. Scratchy. A sling that smelled like wood smoke and bread. A soft hum vibrating through the chest of the woman holding me—low and familiar, like something from a memory I never actually had.
And her face… She wasn't young. She wasn't glowing. But she was beautiful. Not in that fantasy-story way with porcelain skin and flowing golden locks, but in the way time makes someone beautiful. Lines that had carried laughter and loss. Eyes that had seen storms and still looked kind.
The villagers called her Lisa.
And beside her—never far—stood Harold.
He looked like a man carved from a tree. A broad chest, hands like shovels, a beard that looked like it had buried a few secrets. He didn't say much, but when he laughed—low and sudden—it felt like the walls joined in.
And yeah… apparently, they were my parents now.
It's been a week.
One full week in this tiny, ridiculously helpless body. I've drooled, I've spit up (gracefully, of course), and I've stared very seriously at walls while trying to decipher a brand-new language with nothing but instinct and pride.
Turns out? I'm adapting.
Lisa carries me around most days, strapped to her front like a loaf of bread she doesn't want to drop. She chats with people, trades herbs, and explains things to me in her language like I understand.
Honestly? I'm getting there.
The words are still foggy, but I'm picking up the rhythms. Repetition. Intent. Gestures. It's not English, but it's not impossible. My brain—though tragically baby-sized—is working overtime.
Give me a month, I'll be conjugating verbs.
The village itself is... peaceful.
Bigger than I expected. Not the backwater hamlet I was bracing for. Dozens of homes, wide dirt roads, fields stretching in every direction like nature was trying to show off. Children race barefoot through the grass, farmers shout to one another like every day is a celebration of being alive.
And then there's our house.
Two stories. Clean wood, stone base, porch with actual carved beams. A chimney that works. It even has a fence. Definitely the biggest house in the village.
Not bragging or anything. But clearly, these people understood quality the moment they saw me. Even if I was covered in baby fat and incapable of holding my own head up.
I may be small, but I've got presence.
And then... the cows.
We own three. I only know this because Lisa brings me along when she feeds them.
But Judgy...
That's the brown-and-white one. Big eyes. Bigger attitude. Stares at me like I owe it rent. I've never felt so personally attacked by a cow. The others are content chewing grass and ignoring my existence. Judgy stares. Every time. With this slow blink like it knows exactly who I used to be.
I don't know what I did to offend this cow in a past life, but it's not letting go.
No signs of magic.
Yet.
I've tried. Believe me.
I've whispered phrases under my breath. Focused real hard on pebbles and candles. Tried dramatic stares and extended baby fingers. Nothing moved. Not even a flicker.
All that happened was Harold walking in and calling me "serious little bug."
Thanks. Real encouraging.
And yet… I like it here.
The nights are quiet. The food is simple, but warm. Lisa hums old songs while she works. Harold reads aloud from books in the evenings, even if I don't understand a word.
Sometimes I stare at the fire and forget that I died.
That I saved someone. That I gave everything up.
And yet, here I am. Swaddled. Safe.
Not some prophesied hero. Not some legendary warrior. Just… a baby. With a second chance.
I'm still not giving up on magic. Not yet.
But even if this world turns out to be nothing but wheat fields, watchful cows, and hearth fires—
I think I could live with that.
Because for once, I'm not falling. I'm not running. I'm not drowning in anything.
For once… I'm being held.