It was still early in the morning, and Nick kept drawing, even though he remained somewhat drowsy.
In truth, he wasn't drawing an actual piece but rather sketching the characters in different poses to gradually improve his drawing skills.
The thing was, even though he knew what to draw and how to do it correctly, he didn't have much creativity.
However, Nick—in his previous life (and he still felt a strange sensation on the tip of his tongue when referring to his life as something that had already passed)—used to watch basketball games.
He wasn't the most passionate fan, but he'd watch whenever he had some free time, even if just for a few minutes.
So, having memorized only the basics of what players did in the games he watched, he had an idea of which poses he should sketch for a basic test.
Serves, passes, slam dunks… He drew them all. In other words, everything that would fit on the front and back of that sheet of paper.
Nick wondered if the system's skills had some kind of incremental increase per level. But he theorized they didn't.
Basic enough to lack information—or even levels, or anything remotely complex he could imagine under the concept of a "system."
Still, it was a system. So surely, it had some use.
Nick noted that he should stop complaining incessantly and start being grateful—both for being alive and for having an opportunity to grow, whether financially or artistically.
"Wait." He stopped his wrist's movement and set the pencil down on the table. His expression turned thoughtful.
With his hand on his chin, he began considering some possibilities.
Nick realized he was now a child. Taking his short stature into account—a valid point—he guessed he was under 10 years old. Maybe six or eight.
He assumed he was seven, given that the photograph on his nightstand looked fairly recent.
Another thing on his mind: being a child with some kind of relative as his guardian (he couldn't tell if that man was actually related to him, but he guessed it might be his father or uncle), he didn't have the same "freedom" an adult would.
Being sick, still in the early stages of a fever, further limited what he could do day-to-day.
And then there was the matter of his drawings…
"How should I explain suddenly knowing a thing or two about basketball? And how should I explain the sudden change in my drawing style?" he muttered, his voice low, his expression pensive.
Nick remained silent, pondering how to develop an acceptable alibi.
"I'm a child now. What worries do I have besides eating, playing, probably going to school, coming back here, and repeating the cycle?" he wondered, curious.
Then, Nick's mind wandered for a few minutes as his ears caught the sound of the clock's hands ticking on his desk.
Soon, his eyes lit up when an idea came to him.
"Well, I think I have an idea. But I'll need a ball for it to work. And a lot of patience," he said, then pushed the chair back from the table and stood up.
He took his finished drawings and stored them in a dry, clean spot in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe.
Pausing as he closed the drawer, he imagined that painting supplies would also be necessary.
"I can't use crayons forever," Nick said, chuckling lightly.
Then, his mind drifted to the issue of money. He figured he couldn't rely on other people's money his whole life.
"I guess making lemonade would be a good start," he said as he went to straighten the bedsheets before leaving the room.
Out in the hallway, Nick saw a not-so-unusual scene as he approached the living area connected to the kitchen.
That man from before was in the kitchen, at the stove, frying ham and eggs in a pan.
Nick could smell it and hear the sizzle of cooking oil burning in the pan from a distance.
He went to wash his hands at the bathroom sink and took the chance to splash water on his face, wiping his eyes.
Looking at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, he could only see his messy hair. He was so short that he had to stand on a plastic stool to get a proper look.
Seeing facial features similar to those from his past life, Nick made a funny face—pulling the corners of his eyes with his index fingers and grinning awkwardly.
He laughed at his reflection before washing his hands again, turning off the faucet, and leaving the bathroom.
A few moments later, Nick was sitting at the table, hands on his lap and eyes wide, staring at what appeared to be his breakfast.
His right eye twitched, his throat tightened, but he avoided unnecessary words and simply ate in silence.
Meanwhile, the man sat in the chair across from him at the round wooden table, sipping hot coffee from a ceramic mug with a bear design, his expression unreadable.
He set the mug down with a soft clink, the lines on his face tightening into a stern look.
Seeing Nick eating without complaint, the man gave a slight nod of silent approval.
A few minutes later, Nick was helping the man—who he discovered was his uncle, Hugh—wash the dirty dishes and utensils.
When they finished, Hugh grabbed his toolbox, put on his cap, and without turning around, said from the front door, "I'm heading to the workshop. Need anything?"
Nick thought about it, his mind swirling with rejected ideas and possibilities for the future.
Among them, one stood out. It was risky—it might not work—but what kind of life would he have if he never took risks?
"Could you bring three oranges?"
Hugh paused, the request certainly unexpected. But he nodded silently and left, murmuring, "Rest up."
Nick watched the door close and sat on the living room armchair, his expression weary.
He sneezed again.
"If this works, I'll have a way to shake off this flu for good. And maybe make some money," he thought to himself, lying back on the armchair.
His eyes slowly closed as he whispered, drowsily, "For now, my weapon will be patience."
"And I hope I have plenty of it."