I can feel my body again
At first, when Itsuki saw the floating text in that endless void, he hadn't been sure if he was still alive—or if what he felt was simply the echo of something in him fading away; perhaps an hallucination from his subconscious as a last cry for redemption as it clinged to life.
But now… there was weight. Warmth. As the faint texture of fabric brushing against his skin.
His fingers twitched. Beneath his palms, he felt the coarse weave of a bedsheet. Slowly, he clenched his hand, testing the sensation, then slowly opened his eyes.
A warm muted light filtered through his blurry vision.
He tried to sit up, his body heavy and unsteady, as if waking up from a long fever. Muscles protested in dull aches, and the sterile scent of disinfectant filled his nose.
When his eyes finally adjusted, he tilted his head, scanning his surroundings with slow, instinctive caution.
The room was quiet. It wasn't the most spacious place in the world, but its design favored efficiency over comfort. Every detail seemed deliberate—practical rather than decorative.
Giving shape to its four corners were five beds in total: two lined up a few feet to his left, two to his right, each dressed in crisp white sheets and tucked with careful precision.
Pale sunlight filtered through the old, classical-style windows at the far corners, the curtains swaying gently with the breeze that moved through them. Behind each bed, another window stood half-open, letting in soft drafts of cool air that carried the faint scent of summer warmth and fresh earth.
Beside his and every other bed stood a small wooden cupboard—plain, but polished. A neatly folded shirt lay atop his, and just below, a pair of worn shoes rested side by side on the floor.
The silence in the room pressed in, broken only by the faint rustle of wind brushing against the windows.
Where am I?
He swallowed dryly, his thoughts still tangled between what had happened—and what shouldn't have been possible.
He tilted his head down slowly, eyes settling on his hands. His skin looked paler than he remembered, fair and almost colorless, with traces of dirt clinging beneath his nails.
Have my nails always been this dirty?
His gaze drifted from his fingers to his chest. Raising his right hand, he brushed his fingers over the bandage wrapped tightly around his torso, then lowered his hand to the side of his ribs.
The gunshot wound… it's gone?
But how?
He pressed his palm against the spot again, searching for the sharp sting that should have been there—for any trace of torn flesh or dried blood. But there was nothing.
Is it really gone? Have I… somehow been healed?
Without hesitation, he gripped the edge of the bandage and began to unwrap it. The cloth unraveled slowly, circling his body in quiet loops until it came free and fell onto his lap.
He hesitated for a breath, then ran both hands along his ribs once more, as if repeating an experiment.
Maybe I was too dazed then so I mistook where I was hit.
After several seconds of searching, his hands finally fell to his sides. He let out a shallow breath—half disbelief, half relief—as a faint, almost disbelieving smile tugged at his lips.
I really am fine. Even the wound is gone.
He exhaled slowly, staring at the bandage lying limp on his lap.
But how? Surely there hasn't been some kind of medical breakthrough capable of this… has there?
He thought back to the moment he had been subconsciously refusing to accept.
Right before I died… those texts appeared in that strange void. Something said it had given me its blessing—to live again. Is that what this is all about?
Instead of being healed in a hospital… did I actually die, and somehow come back to life?
He shook his head lightly, that faint smile still tugging at his lips as if arguing with someone only he could hear.
No, that's impossible. What I saw must've been a coping mechanism—some hallucination before I passed out.
His gaze drifted across the room again until it settled on the neatly folded clothes atop the nightstand beside him. Shifting his weight, he reached out and picked up the shirt. The fabric felt rough between his fingers—thicker than what he was used to.
He unfolded it slowly. The moment he did, the reality he had been trying to deny slowly began to sink in.
It was a rough-knitted, high-neck cotton blazer, the kind worn beneath a weathered coat that lay folded just beneath it. Both looked practical rather than stylish—stitched for warmth, with pockets sewn for utility and edges frayed from long use. Their dull gray tones spoke of time and wear, the kind of clothes that belonged to another era entirely.
Whose clothes are these? And why do they look so… old?
Acting on instinct, he reached into one of the coat's pockets. His fingers brushed against cold metal. He pulled out a coin—small, worn, and oddly heavy.
On one side, the number 10 was engraved boldly above the faint word sous. The reverse bore the symbol of a sun, its rays etched in careful detail, surrounded by unfamiliar writing that curved along the coin's edge.
Ten sous? What currency is this?
Frowning, he dipped his hand into the other pocket and felt something solid. When he drew it out, a small bronze pocket watch rested in his palm, its surface dulled by age. When he flicked it open, the face revealed a stopped hand frozen in place beneath cracked glass.
Beneath that, on the lower half of the case, was a tiny photograph fitted inside—a worn image barely visible through the wear and scratches of the timely piece.
He squinted, trying to make sense of the image. It showed what seemed to be a family of five: two younger children standing in front of a woman, who herself stood beside a man with a thick mustache. Another child—clearly older than the rest—stood beside the man. Their clothes were plain, modest, the kind you'd find in a faded library book describing late 19th to early 20th century life; simple, unadorned, and yet oddly dignified.
They all had black hair—except for the older child, whose hair gleamed silver.
Itsuki's breath caught as his mind went blank for a moment, the realization pressing against his chest like a weight. Whether he liked it or not, the pieces were starting to fit together.
He slowly closed the pocket watch, his hands trembling. Raising it toward his head before tilting it slightly—and there, reflected faintly on the surface of the worn bronze, was the silver hair on his own head.
He lowered his hand, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Did I actually die… and somehow come back to life? But not in my body….
Is this transmigration?