At first it was only noise.
High voices. Low voices. Rustling syllables that rose and fell like wind in leaves.
But then—something different.
One sound came again and again when the tall figure leaned over him, rough hands adjusting the blankets, a presence that pressed like a mountain but never harmed.
Appa.
Sometimes softer, sometimes sharp, but always followed by warmth. By strength.
The gray-self inside him hesitated.
Was that… a word? A meaning?
When the woman bent near—gentler, softer, a fragrance of herbs always clinging to her sleeves—another sound curled through the air.
Eomma.
It, too, repeated. Wrapped in tones of comfort, of quiet humming.
His small body responded before he willed it, lips moving with strange noises, breath catching as if it wanted to shape the same sounds. The baby-self gurgled; the gray-self watched in mute horror.
Later, from outside, harsher syllables pierced the quiet. Voices like clashing sticks, words carried on pride and discipline.
Clan.
Sect.
He did not know what they meant.
But the air tightened whenever they were spoken, as though the house itself bowed its head.
And then—one word, a knife cutting through the haze.
Spoken close, into his ear. A single name.
His name.
The sound shivered through him, unlike all the rest. It was not only spoken to him, but of him. It clung to his tiny frame like a robe he could not yet wear.
The baby-self cooed. The gray-self went still.
For the first time since awakening in this body, he felt a thread of belonging, and it frightened him.
The sound repeated.
Once.
Twice.
Each time shaped by a different mouth, yet always pointing to him.
His body twitched as though the syllables themselves had weight. The name pressed against his skin, seeped into his bones. He wanted to recoil — yet could not. The baby's mouth bubbled nonsense, but inside, the gray-self whispered:
That is me.
The realization struck harder than hunger, harder than fear. To be called was to be recognized. To be recognized was to exist.
And yet—was this name truly his? Or had his old self, the gray office worker who trudged through a lifeless world, already been erased? The name of a stranger now tied to him, clinging, claiming.
A shiver went through him. For the first time since his death, he felt something colder than despair: the fear of being remade.
He remembered nothing of what the syllables meant, only the sound — simple, small, absolute. It hung in the air after the voices ceased, echoing inside him long into the silence.
Is this who I am now?
But no answer came. Only the soft weight of blankets, the faint herbal scent on the air, and the hollow certainty that the word would follow him forever.
The sound returned.
This time the woman's voice — warm, coaxing, as if pouring honey into the air. The syllables brushed against him like a feather, urging him to yield, to answer.
Then again, deeper, rougher, from the man. The same word, but hammered into shape, steady as stone.
The child-body stirred, tiny limbs flailing in uneven rhythm. His gray-self recoiled. Don't answer. Don't accept it. That is not me.
But the body betrayed him. A small, broken noise escaped his lips, closer to a whimper than speech. The woman laughed softly, her hand brushing his cheek. The man rumbled with approval. Again, they spoke the name.
He felt it seize him — each repetition tightening the noose, wrapping the alien syllables around his helpless form until resistance was useless.
The gray-self screamed inside. He remembered his other name, the one tied to fluorescent lights and endless screens, to the life of dust and shadow. He clung to it desperately, like a man clinging to the last shred of clothing in a storm.
But with every soft utterance from the woman, every firm echo from the man, his old name seemed to fade. The sounds no longer reached him. This new word filled his ears, his lungs, his skin.
Finally, cornered, crushed by repetition, he yielded.
A gurgling cry slipped out, shapeless — but the two faces brightened, as though he had spoken the word himself.
The man repeated it one last time, voice solemn, final, as if carving it into stone. The woman whispered it with a smile.
And so, the word became him.
The gray-self fell silent, shuddering in defeat.
That night, in the stillness of the crib, he drifted into uneasy dreams.
The gray-self stood in an empty office hallway, lights flickering, the stench of stale coffee heavy in the air. His old name echoed faintly — the sound of his coworkers calling him half-heartedly, the flat tones of managers speaking it without care. It was a name of dust, of monotony, of shadows.
Then, from the other side, came the new name. Bright. Sharp. Spoken with warmth, urgency, belonging. Each time it struck, the gray walls of the office cracked. The light shifted, the air filled with scents he did not know — herbs, smoke, something metallic like blood.
No. He tried to hold to the old name, clutching it like a lifeline. It was ugly, ordinary, but it was his. If he let go, he feared he would vanish entirely.
But the new one surged again. Louder. Firmer. Spoken not in boredom, but with conviction, as if declaring him into existence.
The dream twisted. He found himself suspended between two worlds:
On one side, the fluorescent gray corridors of his past.
On the other, a courtyard lit by torches, shadows of figures moving in flowing robes, swords glinting at their waists.
And the two names clashed like blades.
His head filled with sound until he thought it would split. One name dragged him downward, into suffocation and silence. The other pulled upward, into blinding light and strange power.
He thrashed inside the child's body, tiny fists clenching, mouth opening in a voiceless scream.
But the baby's throat betrayed him. Only the new name tumbled from the mouths around him, soothing, commanding, drowning out the gray.
When he woke, damp with sweat and milk-sour breath, the old name was already slipping, like a dream dissolving in daylight.
The gray-self shivered. He could not stop it.