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.