The inn was small, cramped, and forever filled with the mingled scents of stale ale, boiled stew, and smoke from the hearth. To most travelers who stumbled in from the road, it was an unimpressive place—a tired little stop in a village far from any center of wealth or power. But to Ayra, it was home.
She had known far less in her first life. Her sickbed had been her entire world for years, sterile and white, marked by the constant hum of machines. The inn, with all its noise and clamor, with the creak of its wooden beams and the coughs of drunken patrons, was alive in a way her past life had never been. She could almost forgive the hunger in her belly, the threadbare clothes, and the way winter crept through the thin walls.
At seven years old, Ayra already knew more than most children her age. Her mother often said she had "old eyes," too knowing for her small face. And she did—eyes that carried the weight of another lifetime.
Every morning began the same. Her mother would rouse her before dawn, the sky still gray, and Ayra would pad barefoot to the kitchen. The floor was always cold, the chill biting her soles, but she said nothing. Complaints were wasted breath.
Her mother would press a small loaf of rough bread into her hands, and Ayra would eat quickly, chewing through the hard crust while watching her father chop wood for the fires. The man worked with the grim determination of someone who could not afford rest. His hands were calloused, his back bent, yet he still forced a smile whenever Ayra's eyes met his.
She would help sweep the main room, her small hands gripping a broom twice her height. Dust rose in the air, catching the pale morning light that filtered through the shutters. The benches were wiped down, the mugs stacked, the hearth stoked back to life. By the time the first guest stumbled down from their rented room, bleary-eyed and clutching their head from too much ale, the inn was already alive again.
Ayra had grown used to the ebb and flow of strangers. Farmers came most often, bringing news of the harvest, their boots caked in mud. Merchants passed through occasionally, filling the room with their louder voices and their promises of distant cities. Sometimes, a traveler would carry a weapon at their hip, and Ayra would find herself staring in quiet fascination, imagining lives far beyond the village's borders.
Her Earth memories were always there, lingering like ghosts at the edges of her thoughts. When she looked at the worn faces of the farmers, she thought of supermarket shelves stacked with food she had once taken for granted. When she saw merchants weighing copper coins, she thought of the glowing rectangles of credit cards. When she heard stories of far-off kingdoms, she remembered airplanes, trains, and the endless hum of highways.
This world was harsher, simpler, and yet it shimmered with possibilities her old life had denied her.
Her parents were poor, too poor to let their daughter idle. She scrubbed pots, washed linens, and ran errands with quiet diligence. Other children might complain, but Ayra embraced the rhythm of labor. Each day of movement, of sweat, was more than her frail body had ever managed on Earth.
Yet, she did not only work. Sometimes, late at night when the inn grew quiet, she would sit by the window of the small attic space that served as her room. The stars here seemed brighter, sharper, than she remembered from Earth. They stretched endlessly, unclouded by smog or city lights.
She would stare at them for hours, her black hair spilling over her shoulders, her blue eyes reflecting the starlight. In those moments, the world felt vast and uncharted, and though she was only a child in a poor family, she could not shake the feeling that something waited for her out there.
The memories of her first life never left her. They clung to her like a second skin. She remembered the sterile smell of hospitals, the way nurses spoke softly as though afraid she would break, the endless drip of medication into her veins. She remembered loneliness most of all—the slow passing of days when her only companions were books and the hum of machines.
Here, she had family. Here, she had a body that—though frail by village standards—could run, breathe, laugh, and work. Even when her stomach grumbled with hunger, she thought: This is better. This is living.
Still, there was fear too. What if illness found her again? What if fate decided she was not meant to have this second chance? At night, when the inn was silent, Ayra would clutch the thin blanket around her shoulders and whisper to herself:
Not this time. I won't waste it this time.
Sometimes, guests spoke of magic. Not often—magic was rare in a place like this—but enough to plant a seed in her mind. A passing merchant once claimed he had seen a mage in the city, summoning fire from his fingertips to light a street lamp. A farmer swore his cousin's son had been tested and taken away to learn in a tower.
Ayra listened closely, though she never asked questions. She didn't want to seem too eager, too different. Children who asked strange questions were remembered—and remembered children invited suspicion.
But inside, something stirred. The thought of magic—of shaping the world with will alone—fascinated her. She had never had control of her first life. Here, perhaps, she could carve her own destiny.
When the day's work ended, the inn filled with noise again. Men sang off-key songs, mugs clattered, stew boiled over the fire. Ayra would move among them, carrying bowls too large for her hands, catching snatches of conversation.
To most of them, she was invisible—just another innkeeper's daughter. But Ayra was content with that. She preferred to watch from the shadows, to learn quietly. Each guest, each word, was another piece of this world she was stitching together in her mind.
And when the noise finally died and the last candle guttered out, she would slip back into her attic room, exhausted but strangely alive.
Ayra's days were not extraordinary. They were filled with work, hunger, and fleeting glimpses of a world much larger than the walls of the inn. Yet, to her, every moment mattered.
Because for the first time in two lives, she felt she was moving toward something.