Could I be a bastard? It would certainly explain these strange circumstances. What a tragedy! And here I was, hoping for a happy, doting family. Babyhood is supposed to be the most relaxed time of a person's life—wake up, eat, stare at things, poop, sleep, and repeat.
But let's not jump to conclusions. There could be plenty of other explanations for this. Getting caught up in unnecessary expectations won't do any good.
I would comfort Mom, but she's beyond my reach. She's sobbing in the chair next to my bed, her face turned away, trying to shield her sadness from her child. Strangely, though, my mind-reading ability fails to pick up the sorrow that's so clearly there.
A door creaks open in the dimly lit hallway beyond the ornate entrance. Maybe-father walks toward us, his steps slow and deliberate. I turn to look at him, and for a brief moment, our eyes meet. His gaze is filled with fear, uncertainty. You're my dad, right?
He stops beside Mother and lowers himself down next to her. After a brief, awkward hesitation, he wraps his arms around her. Mother leans into him, her muffled sobs growing louder. I watch as his grip tightens, holding her closer, offering what comfort he can.
He says something softly, and Mother responds with a long, repeating whimper. I lie there awkwardly on the bed beside them, feeling the weight of the moment. This doesn't seem good. The silence lingers, heavy and uncomfortable, until I decide to break it. Mustering the most questioning tone I can manage, I call out:
"Mmah?"
The pair turns toward me. I notice two streams of tears flowing down my mother's face, her eyes filled with such genuine sadness that my confidence wavers. Her partner's eyes, however, are harder to read—cold, observant, and indifferent.
Mother reaches out for me, but her hand stops just short of my face. It trembles for a moment before she pulls it back, turning away from me once more. I shift my gaze to father-could-be, and this time, I catch a glimpse of pain in his eyes.
He says something, and a brief silence follows. Then, Mother nods. They both rise, and her partner gently escorts her out of the room. Together, they move into the hallway beyond the large door, disappearing through a door on the right.
I sit alone in the big, open room, contemplating what I just witnessed. There's no doubt in my mind—something's off about this situation. But the problem isn't with them as a couple; they seem healthy and strong together. The issue lies with me. The could-be-father's distance and coldness toward me is a glaring red flag. Yet, my mother treats me with care, seemingly oblivious to her partner's detachment.
If I were truly their child, wouldn't "father" be warmer toward me? But then again, if he weren't my father, how could these two maintain such a strong bond? Perhaps it's simply the power of love overcoming whatever differences they might have. Questions, questions…
"He" emerges from the room they went into, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He takes a deep breath and starts walking toward me again. This time, his eyes lock onto mine immediately, and he doesn't look away. Those same patient, observant, and indifferent eyes—like a judge—seem to stare straight into my soul. Yet, despite the intensity of his gaze, it's clear he still doesn't know what he sees.
He pulls the chair that mother had sat in and moves it as close to the bed as he can comfortably get. We stare at each other, his eyes searching for something I can't quite grasp. I sense a faint stirring from my forehead-gem, so I focus, trying to pick up on his emotions. But all I find is a strange static, an odd sensation that doesn't resemble any emotion I'm familiar with. As I concentrate on the static, I barely manage to discern a hint of suspicion.
He speaks to me. I have no idea what he is saying and so in response I just tilt my head. He mimics me and then turns towards the ceiling and takes another deep exhale. Then he lowers his eyes to meet mine again. I can almost feel his attention on my skin. 'Surely you can hear this.' Words appear in my mind. This suspiciously familiar feeling. These words that come to my mind out of nowhere way too quick to be natural. These aren't my thoughts.
"Aaaaa…" I respond, genuinely surprised. Telepathy—well, isn't that something. Wait, does that mean you can understand this? Do we even need to speak the same language? I guess not, since I could understand you just fine. But how does this information even get transmitted?
'…Yes. Just focus on your intention for me to read your thoughts so I can hear you well.'
So you can't hear all my thoughts. I wonder how that works. Was Mother doing this just now? Are you doing this right now?
'…'
Hello?
'Still here.'
So you heard that.
'Yes.'
...
'…'
Not showing your cards, huh?
'Of course not. I barely know what you are.'
Your daughter, I presume. I notice him wince when I think that. Sore spot, huh.
'My daughter shouldn't be able to have this kind of interaction.'
Oh. Oh. I see. So you think I'm thinking weirdly?
'You know exactly what I mean. But fine, have it your way. We have some results that suggest you may not be just our daughter. And trying to hear your thoughts is all the proof I need.'
What do my thoughts sound like, anyway? This could give me a good picture of how my consciousness works.
'It's thick. Dense. At least more dense than it should be. When I focus on most minds, I hear single words representing what they're thinking in that moment. Maybe a sentence if they're thinking out loud in their head. But with you, where I'd normally hear a single word, I hear a full sentence. And where I should hear a sentence, I just get… static. It's too complex to break down into words, so I feel a collection of sensations that explain the information in a way I can understand.'
Wow. That's the best compliment I've ever heard. Not that I've heard many other compliments, but I can't think of a better one. But just because my thoughts are dense and fast doesn't mean I'm not your daughter. Maybe I'm just smarter than you!
'I'm 80 years old. I—'
No way, you barely look twenty!
'That! That's exactly what I mean. A newborn shouldn't have thought processes like that. You're comparing information—a newborn shouldn't have any information to compare their observations to. But you clearly show signs of experience in life.'
Holy crap. No way. What exactly are they trying to tell me? I stare into his eyes, the same way I'd gaze at a masterwork painting, filled with deep, resonating interest. He seems a little taken aback by my behavior. The static that usually masks his emotions cracks just enough for me to pick up on his surprise and awe, almost obscuring a hint of disappointment.
'…Uuuh. I am saying that you—clearly—have experience from a life before this one. I am saying that you've been reincarnated into the body of my daughter.'
I almost leap to my feet in triumph. Whooodaaah! You've outdone yourself this time, man! Your simulation has become self-aware! It's breaking the fourth wall all on its own! So that's why my dear parents are a bit shaken up. But wait… what did you just say? I fall back into a sitting position, using my tail to steady myself. I look at him, and he seems rather upset.
'I am saying that you are a being that has been reincarnated into my daughter.' There's a clear tone of anger in his thoughts.
Now, that's not entirely true, is it? Just because I have memories of a past life doesn't mean I'm a separate being from your daughter.
'What do you mean by that?' He leans in closer, resting his arms on his legs. I can almost feel the heat of his anger radiating off him.
Certainly! Let's start with this: how would you explain your experience of reality? You're experiencing three dimensions of space and most importantly time, right?
'Yes,' he nods, then immediately shakes his head, clearly confused by what seems like an unrelated question.
Good. Now, do you agree that consciousness is the same as the person, or at least houses the ego, the experienced self?
'I understand that definition as valid,' he replies, the sensation of disappointment in him starting to wane.
Right, so our consciousness is like a person running along the road of time. Now, how would you explain memories? I'd say they're images from the past. They help the running consciousness know where it is by showing what turns it has taken. Would you agree?
'I can follow that logic,' he says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
So you don't necessarily agree. Well, anyway, if memories are just images from the path that consciousness has taken, then it's fair to say that consciousness isn't the same as those memories. The person running isn't the same as the turns he's taken. Agree?
'That is valid,' he nods.
Then these memories of a past self shouldn't be seen as the old memories replacing the self that could have been without them. Your daughter's consciousness is still here. I raise my hand to my chest. My memories don't define me—my existence does. You wouldn't think that Mom is a different person if she suddenly told you she lived an entire alternate life in a dream. She simply has more experience now. And while that might affect the way she acts, like a runner choosing different paths based on prior experience, it doesn't change her name, her body, or her mind. She's still herself, just more experienced.
I am not my memories, Father. They influence the way I think, sure, but wouldn't you want your daughter to learn from her experiences? You're not reading the thoughts of some devil or stranger—you're reading the thoughts of me, your daughter.
Satisfied with my rant, I search my father's face for a reaction. He's staring at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly open—absolutely gobsmacked. The mist that hid his emotions begins to clear, revealing a storm of feelings: awe, surprise, relief, happiness, pride. But even in that swirl of emotions, I can still sense it—that faint thread of uncertainty, tinged with lingering anger.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
'So, Father, would you like to speak with the "soul" of that person who joined this consciousness of mine?'
He jolts at my words, the constant barrage of unexpected turns leaving him visibly shaken, yet he still manages to mutter into my mind:
'Yes.'
I close my eyes, letting my consciousness fade into that familiar white space where I can never fully reach.
In that space, two figures sit on a couch in front of a screen-like crack in the whiteness—a child and an old man. The child slips down from the couch and begins to crawl away from the screen, making her way to a bed. She climbs under the covers, and as her head touches the pillow, she drifts off to sleep. The old man remains seated on the couch, now alone.
Something shifted in my daughter. After the incredible, life-changing explanation she just gave, she closed her eyes, and I sensed something profound happen. When she opened them again, it was as if a part of her still kept its eyes closed.
'Hello, your devil here.' A wicked smile curled on my daughter's lips as an unfamiliar and menacing yet calm, wise, and deep raspy voice of an old man echoed in my mind. It was beings like this that made me question whether having a mind's third-eye was worth it—beings whose thoughts are beyond what mortals can comprehend. If my daughter's thoughts were a song, the thoughts of this entity were like an entire orchestra.
What my daughter said now makes more sense, at least partially. This entity is not the same as my daughter, but I can sense that a part of it resides within her. This only deepens the mystery—how can something so complex be hidden so completely within her? Even her body language has changed, subtly but unmistakably. I don't fully understand it yet, but thanks to my magic, I have plenty of time to come to terms with it.
'What are you?' I ask, my voice edged with both curiosity and caution.
'I'm the person—or perhaps a reflection of the memories of the person, if you prefer—that has been placed into the mind of your daughter. But I suppose you already knew that. As for what I am, I'm mostly human. Is human a valid term here? Could you send over what you know about different species?' My daughter's body raises her fingers to form quotation marks, mimicking human gestures with unsettling precision.
It seems this entity has quickly figured out how information transmission works. I'm not even surprised anymore. Sitting here feels like being in the presence of a deity, something far beyond my comprehension.
I allow memories to surface beyond the fog that protects my mind.
'I see. Pretty similar. Some of those more advanced races would be closer to what I am now.' They replicate my method of transporting memories, sending my own memories back to me. 'I used to be completely human, like these people, but I found my own way to "evolve." It's quite different from how you all do it. Different worlds have different rules, I suppose.' The eyes of my daughter's body scan the room, observing with a sharp awareness. When they turn toward me, I feel a tingling sensation—likely my daughter's third-eye at work. The inspectors called it the World Eye. I've never heard of such a thing, not even in the thousands of books I've read. I can only imagine what information she can gather with it, but it seems like this guy already knows.
'Hey, "guy" makes us sound like strangers. You can address me as the old man or the hatted man. That's how the main ego refers to me,' the hatted old man suddenly speaks in my mind.
'Eh, fair enough,' he smirks.
'Are you reading my mind?' I ask, bewildered.
'You know, you could have just thought that in your head to check,' he teases, calling me out.
'…'
'You're funny,' he laughs. I can't decide whether to focus on the old hatted man's condescending heckling or my daughter's adorable belly laugh.
'I can. Read your mind, that is. Barely, though—my processing power is limited in this form. But then again, I'm just a reflection of a memory. I have only a fraction of my original full physical mind, and everything that was attached to it, at my disposal. Not to mention, I can't even tell what the Storyteller is doing to my body without the logging data,' he muses aloud, sounding incredibly unbothered by it all.
'Storyteller? Logging data? Is your physical mind still alive somewhere?' I ask, intrigued. I know what logging data is—it's a system management term—but "Storyteller" sounds like a name.
'Hmm? Well, this could be an interesting experience,' he says, settling himself into a more comfortable position, as if preparing for a big reaction.
'From my perspective, I'm in a dream of sorts. This entire world has been created by a hand-made artificial intelligence called the Storyteller. I am—or rather, the person I'm a reflection of—is the one who designed that intelligence. Now, how does that make you feel?' He smiles menacingly.
"…Some bullshit, I say!" The thought is so outrageous that I can't help but blurt it out.
'Sadly for you, this isn't the first time a reincarnated person has spun such a fairytale. At the very least, the reality you speak of is as real as ours. You didn't create this world! Your memories could simply be the creation of the world itself. Or perhaps you opened a portal to this world—which, I admit, is also quite impressive.' My confidence wavers as I finish speaking. I had finally found an opening to push back, after being led around by my daughter and this hatted old man for too long, and my pride couldn't resist the chance to wise them up. But now, a nervousness starts to creep in, as if I might have overplayed my hand.
'There are others?' My obvious arrogance seems to fly right past him as he looks down, lost in thought.
'Well, this is a curveball. I'll have to inform the main mind. Good talk.' He raises my daughter's index and middle fingers to her chest in an emote of sorts, and just like that, she passes out as my wife kicks the door to our bedroom open.
"Watch your fucking tongue with my daughter, you skinny, lamp-post-looking drally motherfucker!" she shouts as she storms in, a blast of wind hitting my face. I look at her, eyebrows raised but otherwise unfazed. That was a creative one.