The world was… light.
But not warm.
Just pale and endless — like walking through clouds that didn't move.
Ethan Albarado stood barefoot, the surface beneath him unrecognizable — soft, yet firm. Real, yet dreamlike. There was no wind. No sound. Only that strange pressure in his chest.
He looked down at his hands.
But they weren't his hands.
Not anymore.
They were pale fingers longer, bones more prominent, faded calluses along the side where a pencil once rested. Not the hardened grip of a basketball player.
He gasped.
"This… this isn't me…"
He was Jonathan Anderson again.
The boy from another life. The one who should've remained ordinary — unnoticed. The boy who spent too many hours staring at ceilings, trying to convince himself he mattered.
The one who died.
"Am I… dead again?"
A voice came from behind him. Calm. Soft.
"Not quite."
Ethan turned.
And there he was.
