Vicky Dahiya's last memory was of the glow of his laptop screen, the familiar comfort of his cluttered room, and the hum of a ceiling fan that had done nothing to keep him awake during a late-night movie binge. He had been seventeen, tired yet alert, utterly absorbed in the stories flickering before him. He had always loved worlds beyond his own—the plots, the characters, the thrill of escaping the mundane. TV series, movies, even comic books: every medium was a window to something greater than the ordinary life he lived.
And then… nothing.
The next sensation was startling in its alienness. Darkness, yes—but softer, more enveloping. A warmth he could not name. Sounds, shapes, and scents that were unfamiliar, yet somehow coaxed recognition. A faint luminescence, like sunlight filtering through mist, touched his tiny eyelids. He blinked—or tried to—but the mechanics were slow, clumsy, and entirely foreign. He was small, impossibly small, as if the world had inflated around him overnight.
Vicky's first thoughts were not coherent sentences. They were impressions: shapes, tones, vibrations, a subtle awareness that he was. But underneath the fog, a memory persisted—not from this new body, but from the life he had just left. He remembered the TV shows he had binged, the thrill of guessing plot twists, the comfort of mundane routines. Even as a newborn, a fragment of that self remained: curious, alert, eager to observe.
Around him, the room was soft and quiet. A mobile swayed gently above a small cradle, casting shadows on the pale walls. The faint scent of soap and clean laundry reached his senses. Voices came from somewhere—kind, muffled, adult—but nothing he could yet name. To an outsider, he was a typical newborn: eyes fluttering, hands grasping, crying when discomfort arose. To Vicky, it was all data. Every sound, every scent, every flicker of movement was meaningful.
By his second week, small realizations began to dawn. The rhythm of feeding, the subtle cues from caregivers, even the way light shifted across the room—they formed patterns. He could not articulate them, but he noticed. He remembered his human life, and with it came instincts foreign to infants: observation, deduction, curiosity. While others simply cooed or cried, Vicky analyzed, cataloged, and theorized.
Sometimes, in the lull between sleep and waking, fragments of his old world intruded like echoes from a dream. He saw glimpses of his old room, his friends, the stories he had loved. And with each memory came a strange sense of purpose, a whisper in the back of his mind: you are starting over, but this world is yours to understand.
Emotionally, he was a newborn—but his awareness created a subtle divide. He felt safe in gentle hands, wary of abrupt movements, drawn to those who spoke softly. It was instinct, yes, but also memory filtering through infant perception: a newborn with the sensibilities of a teenager who had spent years watching and analyzing the world.
The first time he realized he could influence his surroundings intentionally was during a quiet night when he lay awake in the cradle. His tiny hands flailed experimentally, striking a hanging toy. It wobbled. He studied the response: motion caused reaction. Sound, light, and movement obeyed rules. Even in infancy, he was beginning to grasp cause and effect in a way that no ordinary baby could.
Sleep still claimed much of his time, but even dreams carried traces of his prior life. Storylines, characters, plot twists—he saw them in flashes, like remembered echoes of the shows he had loved. And beneath it all, a restless curiosity, a drive to explore this new existence fully. Vicky knew, even without understanding why, that he had been granted a second chance: a new life in a world full of unknown rules, mysteries, and possibilities.
By the end of his first month, his awareness was quietly exceptional. To others, he was a normal infant, smiling at faces, cooing in contentment, sleeping in predictable patterns. But beneath the surface, his mind was active, cataloging details, observing behaviors, predicting outcomes. His human memories—his love for stories, his fascination with characters and plots—mingled with his new existence, creating an unusual awareness that would only grow sharper with time.
And somewhere in the distance, beyond infancy and before the challenges of school awaited, this world held secrets, curiosities, and the promise of encounters he could not yet imagine. One day, he would meet others like him, or unlike him, and the lessons from this life, combined with those to come, would shape the person he was meant to become.
For now, he lay swaddled, eyes wide with tentative recognition of a universe unfamiliar yet beckoning. Vicky Dahiya had started again—not just as a newborn, but as a conscious mind in a world that demanded observation, curiosity, and patience. And though he had no idea what awaited, a single truth anchored him: he was alive, aware, and ready to watch, learn, and grow.