There was no light at the end of the tunnel. No angels, no judgment, none of that heavenly peace the churches promise so much. Only darkness. An unbearable silence.
And then… cold.
Not the cold of death. That was different. It was quieter. Definitive. This was… simply different. The kind that seeps into your skin, cuts with the wind, burrows into your bones.
A winter cold.
My lungs were burning. Not the burn of lead tearing through my chest, but something more primitive. I breathed with a violence that hurt. As if my soul had entered a body that wasn't its own. As if everything inside me protested at being awake once again.
I opened my eyes suddenly.
A cloudy sky greeted me.Thick, unmoving clouds pressed down on the morning. So low it felt like the whole world was trapped in a frozen sigh.
My cheek rested on a rough blanket, damp with dew. It smelled of mold, of winter without heating. I tried to move, but my body no longer obeyed like before.
It was clumsy. Light. Unsteady.
Too small.
A cough shook my lungs. I felt something run from my nose. I wiped it instinctively with the back of my hand… and froze.
Those hands.
Tiny. Short fingers. Barely formed nails. No marks, no calluses, no scars. The skin was soft, new. They were hands that had never struck, never defended. Hands that weren't mine.
I breathed heavily and looked around.
Right in front of me stood an old wooden door, slightly cracked with age. Above it, a rusted iron sign swayed in the wind, creaking steadily like an abandoned swing.
I strained to read the crooked letters:
St. Gabriel's Home.
And then… everything came back.
Not like an avalanche, nor like lightning. But like a slow leak. A drip in the roof of my consciousness.
I remembered the cloak.
The gunshot.
The burn of metal entering my chest.
The warmth leaving my body like water.
The light stabbing my eyes.
The girl who didn't stop.
Death. My death.
I remembered dying like a brave fool, dressed in a cheap imitation of a hero, for someone who didn't even look back.
And now I was here. Alive. Small. Freshly abandoned at the gates of an orphanage, again. As if the universe had rebooted me without asking.
My mind started searching for answers. Was this a punishment? But why? A cycle? Had I traveled through time? A parallel universe?
There were too many questions that choked me.
Then I heard footsteps. Clear. Distinct. Like the flutter of a butterfly. I didn't know why, but my ears were… sharper. More alert.
The steps were slow, steady. Padded soles on stone. I could even tell it was two people by the uneven rhythm.
The door creaked.
Two women appeared.
They wore white coats, faded wool sweaters, and caps with a red cross at the center. Both had their hair tied up in rushed buns.Their faces were gentle, but not naive.They looked with the eyes of those who had seen too many children left behind and still hadn't completely lost hope.
One of them knelt without fear and looked at me with blue eyes, like I was a soaked puppy.
"Oh, sweetheart…" she whispered.
"Where are your parents?"
My throat burned.
I wanted to answer, say something, anything. But what could I say? That I'd been torn out of a death that hurt less than this? That my body was a mistake, a new and soft cage?
It's not like they would've believed me.
I opened my mouth, but only a weak, messy babble came out. My tongue wouldn't cooperate. And that voice… it wasn't mine.
She seemed to notice my frustration.
"Shhh, it's okay, my love. Everything will be alright.They left you here, didn't they?" she said, stroking my head.
"What kind of world leaves a child like you all alone…"
The other woman picked something up beside the blanket. A really clean note, written in pale blue ink.
"Look," she whispered. "They left a note."
She read it softly:
'Please, love him.'
They looked at each other in silence. They didn't need to ask anything else. They'd seen too many notes like that in their lives.
The first woman picked me up carefully, while the other took the basket.
Her arms were warm.The rough sweater against my cheek. Instinctively, I curled up. Not because I trusted her, but because my body—this new body—needed warmth.
It needed to survive.
"What do you think his name is?" the other one asked as we crossed the threshold.
The woman holding me smiled, like she didn't need to think very hard.
"I don't know… He looks like a Huck. Like that boy from the stories. The one who did the right thing, even when no one was watching."
"Huck," the first one repeated softly.
"Yeah, that suits him."
And just like that, without asking for it, I was born again with a new name….
We crossed the door.
The wind was left behind.
The door closed with a dull, heavy thud. As if the previous world had been sealed behind me. Inside, the air smelled of hot soup and disinfectant.The hallway was painted with cheerful colors, dulled by time.
Children's drawings hung on the walls; scribbles with crooked names, cartoons of houses, trees, and smiling people. A universe of real… and pretend childhood.
They took me to a room where several cribs were lined up. There were other children. Most asleep. Some crying in their dreams.
I was just another one. A new piece in the puzzle of a life I hadn't asked for.
The woman placed me in a little bed by the window. She tucked me in with a thick blanket, patted my shoulder, and smiled.The kind of smile only given by those who still believe love can heal abandonment.
I stared at the ceiling.
My body trembled, but not from cold. I didn't know if it was fear, relief, or something deeper. It felt like pain had left a crack inside me… and through it, the idea crept in—just a spark— that maybe, this time, not everything was lost.
This time, I hadn't been left with nothing.
This time, the world had given me a different kind of chance.
This time, I didn't just have principles.
I had something else.