Chapter One: Born Again
The first thing he remembered was the light. Not the blinding flash of headlights this time, but the softer glow of morning sunlight slipping through hospital blinds.
A voice. A woman's voice. "It's a boy."
James didn't understand at first. The world was muffled, distorted, as though he were hearing through water. Then the sound of a newborn's cry cut through everything—his cry. His body twisted, small, fragile, weak. Panic and realization struck at once.
No… no, this isn't possible.
But the warmth of the nurse's arms, the unfamiliar weight of a tiny body, and the sight of a woman's tear-streaked face looking down at him told him it was real. He had been reborn.
---
Early Childhood
The Williams household was modest—a two-story home in Chicago, where winters were bitter and summers smelled of cut grass and car exhaust. His father, Michael Williams, was a high school English teacher, with neat brown hair and spectacles that slipped down his nose. His mother, Helen Williams, worked long shifts as a nurse but always came home with a smile and a story to tell.
From the beginning, they noticed something unusual about their son. He had a full head of jet-black hair, dark and glossy, and eyes the color of green glass—bright, sharp, almost unnerving for a newborn. "He looks older than he should," Helen would whisper half-jokingly to Michael.
They called him James Alexander Williams, and from the very start, he carried himself like someone who had lived before.
---
Growing Up in the Late 70s & 80s
His toddler years were filled with small peculiarities. While other children babbled nonsense, James listened intently, his gaze steady, as if weighing every word. By two, he was stringing together sentences; by three, he was asking questions that startled his parents.
"Why do people cry when they see stories on television?"
"Can I have a notebook to write my ideas down?"
Helen would laugh, tucking him into bed. "You've got an old soul, Jamie."
At five, he was already inventing games based on stories he imagined. He'd line up his toy cars and make them recite dialogue, narrating whole adventures with a confidence no child his age should have. When Michael came home from school with stacks of Shakespeare and Steinbeck, James would sneak peeks, sounding out the words by lamplight.
---
It was around this age that James learned about his family's most unusual connection.
One summer, the Williams family drove to California for a reunion. The backyard was filled with relatives James had never met, the air buzzing with chatter and barbecue smoke. And then came the ripple of excitement—Robin Williams had arrived.
James had known Robin only as a beloved star in his first life, but now here he was in the flesh, family. A distant cousin, yes, but still blood.
Robin swept through the party with easy warmth, telling jokes that made the adults howl with laughter. To James, he seemed larger than life, a sun everyone turned toward. Eventually Robin noticed the little boy hiding shyly by his mother's leg.
Robin crouched down, his grin softening. "Well, hey there, Jamie," he said, tousling the boy's black hair. "You've got your family's eyes—bright as emeralds. Keep those wide, kid. The world's full of things worth watching."
James only blinked up at him, but inside, his heart thundered. Robin gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and added with a wink, "And who knows? Maybe one day you'll be the one making people laugh."
For James, the words were like a spark. If Robin Williams could move the world through laughter and stories, then maybe—just maybe—he could too.
---
Through the early 80s, James grew into a tall, lean boy with a mop of black hair that never stayed combed. His green eyes often unsettled teachers; they were too sharp, too knowing, as if he were studying them instead of the other way around.
He filled notebook after notebook with sketches of characters, scenes, and dialogue. While other kids dreamed of baseball stardom, James dreamed of screens filled with his words, his face, his stories.
The shoebox in his closet overflowed with handwritten "scripts": one about a shark terrorizing a beach town, another about a boy who discovers time travel. They were crude, childish imitations, but his parents kept them lovingly. "He's got imagination," Michael would say. "Maybe he'll be a teacher like me."
But James knew better. He wasn't imitating. He was remembering. He was preparing.
.
.
By twelve, he was restless. His voice cracked as it deepened, his lanky frame growing faster than his mother could keep up with new clothes. He spent evenings glued to the family's VHS player, replaying movies over and over, memorizing every shot, every line.
The world didn't know it yet, but James Williams was readying himself for something far greater than childhood scribbles.
High school was around the corner. And with it—the first real steps into the destiny he had been waiting two lifetimes for.
–...