I realized I was reincarnated while waiting for change.
No trumpets, no glowing gate, no goddess announcing my grand destiny. Just me standing in a crowded market, holding three copper coins that didn't belong to any country I remembered, and listening to a bird stamped on the metal as if it were explaining my existence. The baker dropped them into my palm like he'd been performing a rehearsal for someone else.
"Bread gets cold whether you're awake or not," he said.
That was the ceremony. No choir, no blinding light, just an impatient man and a loaf that tasted like warm dust. Three weeks have passed since then.
Life here is ordinary. From the outside it probably looks peaceful: a narrow rented room above a tailor's shop, a job hauling crates at the river docks, meals that repeat themselves like polite lies. The body I woke up in is young, thin, and forgettable—exactly the kind of face people step around without noticing.
Being ignored is comfortable. I've decided I like it.
No divine screen appeared to congratulate me. No voice explained the rules of this world. I simply woke up one morning with memories that weren't mine, a name I didn't recognize fully, and a strange certainty that I was temporarily borrowing someone else's life. The previous owner of this body left no instructions—only calloused hands and a small scar near the elbow. I kept both.
Merrow is a city built from stone teeth, with markets that smell of fish and smoke and churches tall enough to bully the sky. Heroes pass through often, wearing bright armor and polished smiles. Children chase after them, adults kneel, and the city forgets to breathe while applauding. I watch from doorways.
Not because I admire them.
Because I like observing myths up close, before the stories get printed.
Last week, a hero bought apples from the stall where I sometimes help. He smiled too much and lectured me about the "righteous path" the way a merchant lectures a coin. When he left, I counted the coins and discovered he'd overpaid by two silvers.
I kept them.
Good people return money. I prefer correct math.
Work at the docks begins before the sun remembers its shape. We haul barrels of salt fish, crates of nails, sacks pretending not to be weapons. The foreman complains in three languages and pays in one. It suits me.
Reincarnation hasn't changed my preferences. I like predictable hours, roofs that don't leak, food that doesn't argue. Ambition is a noisy animal; I've never owned one.
Yesterday, while resting near the bridge, I watched a disagreement between two mercenaries. Dice rolled, pride spoke, and steel answered. One fought like a festival drum—loud, wide, and sloppy. The other moved like a problem being solved, quiet, economical. Emotion bled first; the quiet one won.
Most people ran. I set my crate down carefully—nails are expensive—and watched the final lesson. The victor noticed me staring. "Enjoying the show?"
"Learning," I said.
He offered coins to help drag the body to the river. I refused. I already had a job that didn't involve floating responsibilities. He shrugged and left with his new luggage.
That was when I understood something useful about this world: violence isn't an accident here. It's a trade with predictable hours. I respect honest employment.
Evenings in Merrow smell of soup and damp rope. I usually buy bread from the same baker, mostly to maintain the illusion of routine. He thinks I'm simple because I don't talk much. I've never corrected him; misunderstandings are cheaper than explanations.
The festival banners have started appearing—blue cloth painted with smiling heroes defeating the old Villain Lord. Children sing songs about courage, merchants hang flags about justice, and the priests pray as if the universe needed reminders. People like stories where the world makes sense and someone else pays the bill.
I don't.
A preacher cornered me yesterday near the well and asked if I'd accepted the light. I told him I'd accepted overtime at the docks. He frowned as if I'd insulted a relative. Faith seems sensitive about competition.
My room contains four possessions: a bed that limps, a table that leans, a chair that complains, and a cracked mirror that lies politely. I added a fifth yesterday—a cheap cooking pot—because living people eventually require soup. I'm not unhappy. Unhappiness requires expectations.
Sometimes, while lying awake, I try to remember the life before this one. Fragments arrive like broken plates: an apartment too small for its rent, a job where the clock was the only loyal friend, evenings scrolling through other people's victories. Nothing heroic, nothing tragic enough to justify a second act. If the universe chose me for a sequel, its taste is questionable.
Today at the docks, a shipment arrived guarded by soldiers wearing the kingdom's blue crest. The foreman suddenly discovered manners. We were ordered to handle crates as if they were newborns. I lifted one and felt weight that didn't belong to fish or nails. Secrets are heavier than they look.
While working, I noticed a thin man watching from the alley. He wore a coat too warm for the season, eyes too calm for the crowd. Not a soldier, not a merchant—something else folded carefully inside human shape. None of my business. That's a sentence I repeat often.
The day ended without fireworks, which I count as success. I collected my pay, three copper more than yesterday, and walked home through streets rehearsing for celebration. Children practiced songs about heroes. Vendors practiced prices about tourists. Normal, loud, alive.
At the baker's stall I met a girl arguing about the size of her loaf. She insisted it had shrunk since morning. The baker insisted she had grown greedier since breakfast. I waited my turn and enjoyed the theater. She noticed me smiling.
"Do you think this is fair?" she asked.
I studied the bread like a judge considering a criminal. "It looks guilty."
She laughed, the kind that doesn't worry about who hears it, and bought two loaves out of spite. I bought one because hunger is a reliable clock. We walked the same direction for a while. Her name was Lira, daughter of a potter, enemy of small portions. She asked what I did.
"Carry things from one place to another," I said.
"Dream job."
"Stable."
She told me she wanted to see the capital, maybe marry a hero, maybe own a shop that never cheats customers. Her future sounded crowded. Mine resembled an empty chair. At the corner, we separated like polite strangers. She waved. I waved back because it cost nothing.
Night returned with its usual committee of noises—drunks negotiating with walls, cats arguing philosophy, the tailor below practicing snoring as an art form. I ate bread, considered making soup, decided laziness was also nutrition.
I sometimes wonder what the previous owner of this body wanted. Did he plan revolutions? Did he love someone? The city keeps no records for the unimportant, and I have inherited his silence along with his bones. That feels fair.
I'm not here to correct the world.
I'm here because breathing continued.
And somewhere deeper than thought, I understood one small truth: when survival requires a death, I do not argue.
Before sleep, I counted the coins in my pocket: enough for rent, not enough for dreams. A perfect balance. From the window I could see the festival banners fluttering like confident lies. People believe the story they're told: heroes defeated darkness, the Villain Lord is a memory, tomorrow will be polite. Maybe they're right.
I lay on the bed and listened to the city practice being safe. I am still ordinary. Recently reincarnated, lightly employed, morally flexible.
The whisper didn't return tonight.
That's fine. I have no intention of looking for it.
For now, I will wake before dawn, carry crates that don't know my name, buy bread that never improves, and watch heroes pass like expensive weather. Ordinary, unnoticed, unremarkable.
This second life requires no speeches.
It only requires breathing.
And I will breathe.