The moment the world turned black, the pain didn't just stop; it was deleted.
One second, my chest was a cage of fire, my lungs collapsing under the weight of my own blood, the cold rain of the Tokyo alleyway soaking into my clothes. Next, there was nothing. No pain. No cold. No sound. Just an infinite, heavy void.
I floated there for what felt like a second, or maybe a century. I thought this was it. The end. The credits were rolling on the life of a high school pitcher who never made it to the big leagues.
Then, the sensation shifted.
It wasn't a visual change. It was auditory. I heard a sound. It started as a low, rhythmic thrumming, like the bass of a car stereo heard through a thick wall. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It was a heartbeat, but it wasn't mine. It was too loud, too encompassing.
Then came the voices.
They were muffled, distorted, as if I were listening from underwater. They were speaking, shouting maybe, but the words were incomprehensible. It wasn't Japanese. It wasn't English. It was a guttural, rhythmic language that sounded like stones grinding together in a riverbed.
I tried to focus on the sound, to latch onto it as a lifeline in the void. I tried to open my mouth to ask who was there, to ask if the police had caught the guy with the knife.
But I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe.
Then, the pressure came. An immense, crushing pressure that squeezed me from all sides, pushing me, dragging me toward a piercing sliver of light that had appeared in the distance.
No. Stop. It hurts.
The light grew brighter, expanding until it swallowed the darkness whole. The air hit me like a physical blow cold, sharp, and stinging against skin that felt raw and exposed.
My eyes struggled to open. They felt heavy, sticky, and uncooperative, as if they had been glued shut for years. When I finally managed to pry them apart, the world was a blinding, overexposed blur of white and beige.
Shapes loomed over me. Massive, terrifying shapes.
The first thing that came into focus was a face. It was colossal, taking up my entire field of vision. It was an older man, maybe in his fifties, with wild grey hair that stuck out in every direction like static-charged wool. His face was stern, weathered, carved from granite, with deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth. A thick, gruff mustache hung over his lip like a bristle brush.
Where am I? The hospital? Is this the doctor?
I tried to ask him where my father was. I tried to ask if the woman in the alley was okay. I tried to scream.
"Gaa... ahh..."
The sound that left my throat wasn't words. It wasn't even a scream. It was a wet, high-pitched, pathetic gurgle.
Panic spiked in my chest, cold and sharp. I tried to sit up. I tried to push myself away from the giant face. But my body refused to listen. It felt heavy, disconnected, like I was trapped in a suit of lead armor that didn't fit. My limbs flailed uselessly, uncoordinated and weak, striking the soft surface beneath me with zero force.
Before I could process the paralysis, the world tilted.
The old man reached down. His hands were enormous, enveloping my entire torso. He lifted me up by my armpits as if I weighed nothing more than a feather. The air rushed around me, cold and biting.
He barked out a few words in that unknown language, his voice rumbling like thunder. He inspected me with a critical eye, turning me slightly in the air, checking my limbs. Then, his stern expression cracked. The corner of his mouth twitched up into a brief, satisfied smile.
He lowered me down, passing me from his rough grip into a pair of softer, warmer arms.
I looked up, my vision swimming as I tried to focus.
A woman was holding me. She appeared to be in her late twenties, her skin flushed pink, sweat glistening on her forehead like diamonds. Strands of damp hair were plastered to her temples. She was wearing a simple, loose linen shift made of rough, white fabric, open at the neck.
She was beautiful. Even through my confusion, I could see that. She had a stunning blend of chestnut and gold hair that framed her face like a halo. Her eyes were a soft, vibrant blue, filled with an exhaustion that went bone-deep, but beneath that exhaustion was an intense, terrifying warmth.
She smiled down at me. It was the kind of smile that stopped the world.
She said something in that foreign tongue, her voice soft and melodic, washing over me like a lullaby. She brought a hand up to my face. Her finger, which looked as large as a tree branch to me, gently stroked my cheek. The skin of her finger was smooth, warm, and smelled faintly of sweat and soap.
She's gorgeous... frankly, she's a knockout. But why is she holding me? Who are these people? And why is everything so big?
She muttered a few more words, adjusting the blanket around me. Then she looked up to her left.
Another giant leaned into my view.
This man was younger than the grey-haired one. He had messy dark brown hair that fell into his eyes, eyes that were a piercing, electric blue. He had a strong jawline covered in a day's worth of stubble. He looked down at me, and his face broke. A massive, goofy grin spread from ear to ear, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, cutting tracks through the dust on his face.
He looked... happy. Overwhelmingly, devastatingly happy.
What is going on?
My mind raced, spinning like a top. I swear I was just... wait. That's right. The rain. The bridge. The knife. I felt the steel enter my chest. I felt the cold pavement against my back. I died. I know I died.
Wait... Dad? Where is he? Is he here?
I tried to move again. I pushed with everything I had, straining my neck muscles, trying to lift my head to look past these giants. I needed to see if my father was standing in the corner with his hands in his pockets, wearing that old team cap.
But my neck wouldn't support the weight of my head. It wobbled, unstable and weak, and I flopped back against the woman's arm.
I was helpless.
Slowly, with every ounce of willpower I had, I raised my right hand into my line of sight.
I froze.
It wasn't the hand of a pitcher. There were no calluses on the fingertips from gripping a slider. There was no scar on the knuckle from when I scraped it on the dugout fence. There was no athletic tape on the wrist.
My fingers were tiny, pink, and delicate. The palm of my hand looked small and squishy, like a soft dumpling. My wrist was barely the width of a coin.
I am an infant.
***
Two Weeks Later
The fog in my mind was finally beginning to clear, but the reality of my situation was a pill that was impossible to swallow.
I wasn't in a coma. I wasn't dreaming. The knife in the alleyway, the blood, the cold... that was the end of my life in Japan. I wasn't saved by a doctor. I was rebooted.
I had been reincarnated.
The name I was given is Percival. Percival Wilder.
My new home wasn't a hospital in Tokyo. It was a two-story, rustic cottage that seemed to have been ripped straight out of a fantasy RPG. There was no hum of electricity, no fluorescent lights, no light switches, no faucets, and definitely no Wi-Fi.
The walls were built from rough-hewn stone and mortar, thick enough to keep out the draft. The floor was made of dark, polished timber that creaked when my new parents walked on it. Every piece of furniture, from the heavy dining table to the high-backed chairs, looked hand-carved by a skilled carpenter, sturdy and smelling of pine and varnish.
It was a primitive life. When the sun went down, the room was lit only by the orange, dancing glow of the fireplace and the flickering light of tallow candles that smelled of animal fat.
I lay in my crib, staring at the ceiling beams. I still didn't understand a single word my new parents were saying. They continued to speak in this foreign tongue that my ears hadn't adjusted to yet. It was frustrating. In my last life, I was at the top of my class in English. I studied hard so I could go to America with my dad. Here? I was illiterate and mute. I was a genius trapped in a potato.
My new mother, Sylvia, was a constant presence. She was kind, gentle, and possessed a patience that I frankly didn't deserve. She doted on me constantly. She loved to sit by the window in the rocking chair, letting the sunlight hit us, singing soft songs that I assumed were lullabies.
She was beautiful, with an elegance that felt out of place in this rustic cottage. Her hands were rough from work, but her touch was soft.
Then there was my new father, Roxas.
He was a mountain of a man. A literal giant compared to my tiny form. I had pieced together that he was a carpenter, or maybe a lumberjack, based on the smells he brought home.
He came home early one evening, the heavy wooden door creaking open to announce his arrival. He was covered in a fine layer of sawdust that made him look like a sugared donut. He washed his hands in a basin of water near the door, scrubbing the dirt from his forearms, and walked over to the crib where Sylvia had laid me down.
He reached in. His hands were massive, broad, and thick-fingered.
I tensed up. My adult mind was still wary of strangers, still holding onto the trauma of the man in the alleyway. But Roxas was gentle. He lifted me up effortlessly, his large hands supporting my head and back with practiced care. He cradled me against his chest. He smelled of fresh cedar shavings, beeswax, and hard, honest work.
He sat down in the rocking chair, the wood groaning slightly under his weight. He looked down at me with that same goofy grin I had seen on the day I was born, a grin that reminded me, painfully, of my old dad.
He held out his index finger, tapping my chest lightly.
"Percival," he rumbled, his voice deep and vibrating through his chest against my back.
I looked at his finger. It was hovering right in front of my face. It was thick, callused, and rough on the finger of a man who built things.
Instinct took over.
In my old life, whenever someone handed me something like a pen, a bottle, or a remote my hand naturally drifted into a specific shape. Muscle memory is a powerful thing. It doesn't fade just because the body changes. The wiring in my brain was still the same.
I reached out with my tiny, uncoordinated hand. My motor control was garbage, but I focused. I concentrated on the target.
I wrapped my fingers around his thick index finger.
But I didn't just grab it like a baby. I adjusted. I placed my index and middle finger over the top of his knuckle, spacing them slightly apart. I tucked my thumb underneath, digging it into the side. I curled my ring and pinky fingers into my palm.
The Four-Seam Grip.
It was weak. My baby fingers could barely apply any pressure. My skin was soft and pink against his scarred, tanned leather skin. But the mechanics were perfect. It was the grip I had used to strike out the final batter at Koshien. It was the grip my father had taught me in the backyard when I was three years old, guiding my small hands over the baseball.
I've got you, Dad, I thought, a sudden, crushing wave of homesickness crashing over me. I'm ready to play catch. Just throw the ball.
Roxas blinked. He looked down at his finger, then at my face. He tried to wiggle it free, but I held on tight, my tiny face scrunching in absolute concentration. I wasn't letting go. This was my connection to who I used to be.
"Oho?" Roxas laughed, a booming sound that shook his chest. He looked over at Sylvia, his eyes shining. "Look at this, Sylvia! He's got a grip like a vice! He's going to be a craftsman, just like his old man."
He didn't know it was a pitcher's grip. He didn't know I was trying to throw a fastball. But he looked proud.
But the moments of connection were rare. Most of the time, it was just... silence.
The helplessness was bad. The diapers were humiliating. But worse than the inability to walk, worse than the mushy food, was the silence in my own head.
I had too much time to think.
***
One afternoon, about three weeks in, the house was quiet. Sylvia was outside tending the small vegetable garden in the yard. Roxas was at work. I was alone in the wooden crib, lying on a mattress stuffed with wool and straw.
The afternoon sun was streaming through the window, hitting the floorboards in a sharp, angular beam. Dust motes danced in the light, swirling in slow, lazy circles.
It reminded me of the locker room window.
The memory hit me like a physical blow to the gut.
The locker room. I could smell it. The champagne. The cider. The sweat. The feeling of the cold gold medal pressing against my chest. The sound of my teammates chanting my name.
And the text message.
"Tonight, we feast like kings."
My chest tightened. A lump formed in my throat, hot and painful, expanding until I couldn't breathe around it.
He was gone.
I left him. No, wait... the officer said he died at the scene. We're both gone.
The house in Japan is empty right now. The pot of sukiyaki is probably still sitting on the stove, the beef cold and congealed, growing mold. The vegetables are rotting in the fridge. My glove is probably still sitting on the bench in the entryway where I dropped it when I ran out the door.
There was no funeral I could attend. No one to mourn me except maybe my teammates. Did they find my body in the rain? Did they call my dad's phone, only to find out he was dead too? Who identified the bodies?
Who is taking care of the house? Who is going to clean up the unfinished dinner?
"Dad..." I tried to say the word. I tried to call out to him.
But my vocal cords weren't developed. It came out as a broken, high-pitched whimper. "D...aaa..."
The realization crashed down on me with the weight of a collapsing building. I would never see him again. I would never hear him complain about his back after a long shift. I would never see that lopsided, goofy grin when I threw a strike. We would never go to America. We would never finish that anime.
My throat constricted. My tiny chest heaved, gasping for air.
"WAAAAAAH!"
A deep, guttural sob ripped its way out of me. It wasn't a cry for milk. It wasn't a cry because I was wet. It was a scream of pure, unadulterated grief. It was a scream that belonged to a sixteen-year-old boy who had lost everything, forcing its way through the lungs of an infant.
I cried for the old man. I cried for the sukiyaki we never ate. I cried for the catch we'd never play again. I cried because I was alone in a world of wooden furniture and strange words, and I just wanted my dad.
The front door banged open.
Sylvia rushed in, dirt on her knees, panic in her eyes. She dropped her gardening basket by the door, spilling carrots and onions across the floor.
"Percival? Oh, what's wrong? Are you hungry?"
She rushed over to the crib and scooped me up, rocking me back and forth, shushing me gently. She checked my diaper with practiced speed. She put a hand to my forehead to check for fever.
"Shh, shh, Momma's here. It's okay. I'm here."
She didn't know. She thought I was just a baby having a tantrum. She didn't know I was mourning a ghost. She didn't know that the son she was holding was a stranger from another world.
I buried my face in the crook of her neck, gripping her rough linen shirt with my tiny fists, soaking the fabric with my tears. I just let it all out. I cried until I was exhausted, until my throat was raw and my eyes were swollen shut.
I missed him so much. It hurt. It physically hurt.
But as Sylvia rocked me, humming that soft, foreign melody, the warmth of her body began to seep into the cold hollow in my chest. She held me tight, rubbing my back in slow, soothing circles. She wasn't him. She would never be him. But she was here. And she wasn't letting go.
I slowly stopped crying, reducing my sobs to wet, shuddering hiccups. I rested my head against her shoulder, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
It was a different rhythm than his, but it was steady. It was alive.
I closed my heavy eyes, exhausted by the emotional purge.
Goodbye, Dad, I whispered in the silence of my mind. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I couldn't survive.
I felt Sylvia kiss the top of my head.
I'll try, I promised the ghost of my father. I'll try to live this one for both of us.