The first thing he noticed was the soft weight of a blanket pressing against his chest—thick and worn, but carrying the scent of woodsmoke and herbs. The second was the quiet creak of old floorboards. Somewhere nearby, water boiled. A fire crackled.
His eyes fluttered open.
The room was dimly lit, the warm orange hue of lanterns casting flickers on the timber walls. There were woven baskets on the shelves, dried herbs hanging from the beams, and a single chair pulled close to the bed he lay in. He wasn't dead.
But he wasn't in the world he knew either.
It had taken some time to admit it, but deep down, he'd already accepted it—the memories, the language, the sky that felt too real to be dreamed. He had died. And somehow, impossibly, he was here now. In this unfamiliar body. In this unfamiliar place.
He wasn't dreaming. This wasn't some lucid trick of the mind. This was real.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the wooden door creaked open. A young girl peeked in—she looked around twelve, her pale brown hair braided to one side, freckles spotting her nose.
"He's awake!" she called behind her, grinning wide.
In seconds, an older woman stepped in, face stern but eyes tired with concern. She carried a clay bowl and a cloth. A man followed close behind—tall, broad, a bushy beard tucked into a leather vest. His expression was unreadable.
"You've been unconscious for almost two days," the woman said, dipping the cloth into the bowl. "We found you by the river bend, soaked to the bone, skin like ice. Thought we'd lost you before we even knew your name."
"...Thank you," he managed, his throat dry and rough.
"You remember your name, boy?" the man asked bluntly.
He paused, eyes drifting to the flicker of firelight dancing across the ceiling.
"No. I… I don't."
The girl tilted her head. "Do you remember anything? Where you're from? Who your parents are?"
He shook his head slowly. "Nothing. It's all blank. Just… flashes. Water. Cold."
The man scratched his beard, frowning. "He might've hit his head on the rocks. The river pulls strong this time of year."
"Or maybe the gods sent him," the girl said softly, as if daring to believe in something.
"Enough with that," the woman muttered, wringing the cloth. She looked back at him with gentler eyes. "Whatever the reason, you're safe here. This is our home—small and quiet, but warm enough."
"I'm Marella," the woman said. "That's my husband, Thomund. And this little bird is Elya."
Elya beamed. Thomund grunted.
"I… I don't know how to thank you," the boy said sincerely.
"You can start," Marella said, "by staying in that bed until your legs work again."
---
That night, as the fire dimmed and quiet settled in, he lay awake beneath thick quilts. Not from discomfort, but from the strange stillness inside him.
No fear. No panic. Just a quiet certainty.
He wasn't who he used to be.
«But in this new world, with this new life, who would he become»?