The first thing I felt was the cold.
Not a harsh cold, not the kind that bites your skin in the dead of winter. It was a damp, gentle cold, almost pleasant. It moved across my body like an unfamiliar breeze, gliding over my skin without me being able to understand where it came from.
Then came the pain.
An immense pain.
My lungs contracted violently. I tried to breathe, but something was wrong. The air refused to enter. Instinctive panic seized me.
I'm going to die.
The thought crossed my mind with terrifying clarity.
I opened my mouth.
A cry burst out.
A high-pitched, ridiculous, desperate cry.
And yet, that cry was mine.
— He's breathing!
A woman's voice.
Trembling.
Relieved.
I wanted to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt like they weighed a ton. My body was strange. Too light. Too weak. I could barely feel anything I was doing, as if my limbs didn't belong to me yet.
Arms lifted me up.
A gentle warmth enveloped my body.
The smell of blood, sweat, and flowers filled my lungs.
Then another voice rose.
— It's a boy.
It was deeper.
A man.
He was laughing.
A nervous laugh, almost disbelieving.
— A boy...
He repeated the words as if he'd just received the greatest gift of his life.
I finally managed to open my eyes a crack.
The light blinded me immediately.
Above me was a wooden ceiling. Thick beams crossed the room, and a small window let in the last orange rays of sunlight.
No hospital.
No machines.
No fluorescent lights.
No doctors.
Just a simple room lit by a few oil lamps.
I didn't understand anything.
My mind desperately searched for a logical explanation, something I could hold on to.
But before I could think any further, my gaze was drawn to the people gathered around me.
There were three of them.
A woman was lying in a large bed. She looked exhausted. Her long black hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, but despite her fatigue, a smile lit up her face.
Beside the bed stood a brown-haired man. His face was marked by emotion, and his eyes were slightly red. He kept looking at me, as if he feared I would disappear the moment he looked away.
A little farther away stood an older woman.
She must have been in her fifties, perhaps older. Her hair was gray and carefully tied behind her head. She wore a long, dark dress and held several clean cloths in her hands.
She was smiling.
I didn't know who they were yet.
I didn't know where I was.
I didn't even know why I was able to think.
Then an impossible thought crossed my mind.
Am I... reincarnated?
My heart clenched.
The idea was absurd.
Completely absurd.
And yet, the more I looked around the room, the more that explanation seemed like the only one that made sense.
Because I remembered.
I remembered my life.
I remembered my death.
I remembered everything.
In my past life, my name was Liam Varen.
I was twenty-three years old.
I wasn't anyone special.
I wasn't rich, intelligent enough to change the world, or particularly talented at anything. I'd never won a competition, written a book, or created anything anyone would remember.
I was just Liam.
A boy who had grown up without his parents.
They had died on the day I was born.
So I had never known their voices, their scent, or even the feeling of their arms around me. The only things I had left of them were a few photographs kept in an old box.
I was raised by my grandparents.
I loved them.
They were my family.
My grandfather was a quiet man who didn't talk much, but always found a way to make me smile. My grandmother was the opposite. She talked a lot, worried about everything, and spent her time checking whether I'd eaten enough.
Throughout my childhood, they had been my refuge.
But even with them, something was wrong.
I was afraid.
All the time.
At first, no one really understood.
Neither did I.
I could stand in front of the house's door for several minutes before managing to open it. Going out to buy bread became a real ordeal. Taking the bus sometimes made me feel like I was going to run out of air.
I knew those reactions were disproportionate.
I knew it perfectly well.
The problem was that knowing didn't change anything.
My heart beat too fast.
My hands trembled.
My breathing grew shallow.
And when the panic came, my brain stopped thinking properly.
So I started avoiding the situations that scared me.
Then I avoided others.
And still more.
Little by little, my world grew smaller.
My bedroom.
The kitchen.
The bathroom.
That was about it.
I hardly went outside anymore.
My grandparents tried to help me, but they were getting older. Even so, they always did their best for me.
Then, on the day I turned eighteen, I lost them.
A car accident.
A simple accident.
A few seconds had been enough.
They were both gone.
And I was left alone.
At eighteen.
With a house that was too big and a silence that never ended.
The years that followed were a blur.
I worked enough to survive.
I ate.
I slept.
I spent hours in front of a screen.
I watched shows.
I played games.
I read sometimes.
But I always put everything off until the next day.
“I'll clean tomorrow.”
“I'll go out tomorrow.”
“I'll look for another job tomorrow.”
“I'll talk to someone tomorrow.”
“I'll start living tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.
I thought I still had time.
I was twenty-three.
I should have had my whole life ahead of me.
And yet, I could no longer see any future.
One night, I made a decision.
I left my house.
That alone was already difficult.
My hands trembled.
My heart was beating so hard I felt like it was going to explode.
But I kept going.
I climbed to the roof of a building.
The city stretched out before me.
The lights in the buildings shone in the night.
Cars moved along the streets below.
The wind was cold.
I stayed there for a long time.
I still don't know how long.
I simply remember looking out over the city and thinking that all of it would continue without me.
Then one last thought crossed my mind.
If only I could start over.
I fell.
And my life ended.
But now...
I was here.
Once again.
Alive.
I couldn't understand why.
I didn't know whether it was a miracle, a punishment, or simply an absurdity of the universe.
But I was breathing.
I could hear.
I could see.
And most importantly, I had something in front of me that I hadn't had in a long time.
A family.
Finally, perhaps.
The woman holding me in her arms looked at me with eyes full of emotion.
She was exhausted, but she didn't seem to want to sleep.
She gently pulled me against her.
I felt the warmth of her body.
It was strange.
Terribly strange.
I knew she was a stranger.
And yet, something inside me wanted to stay against her.
The man beside the bed quickly wiped his eyes before leaning toward me.
— He's really small...
The older woman let out a little laugh.
— That's usually the case with newborns, Kael.
The man started laughing too.
— I know, Elma.
Kael...
I tucked the name away in a corner of my memory.
Then the old woman's name.
Elma.
I didn't know who they were yet.
But I would find out soon.
The older woman approached the bed and gently adjusted the blankets around the young mother.
— You should rest, Mira.
Mira.
I looked at the woman holding me.
She smiled.
Then she lowered her eyes to me.
Her expression changed.
All the weariness seemed to vanish from her face for a few seconds.
Nothing remained but immense tenderness.
She gently brought her finger toward my tiny hand.
Instinctively, my fingers closed around hers.
She let out a soft laugh.
— He's strong already.
Kael stepped closer.
— We should give him his name.
Mira gently nodded.
— Yes.
She looked at me for a few more seconds.
I couldn't look away.
I didn't know why.
Maybe because there was something in her eyes that made me feel an emotion I hadn't known in years.
I didn't want her to leave.
I didn't want to be alone.
Not again.
Mira smiled.
She brought her face close to mine.
And in a gentle voice, almost a whisper, she said:
— And I'm Mira. Your mom.