The last thing he remembered was drinking.
Too much drinking.
At twenty-two years old, his life had been consumed by a black company that glorified overtime and crushed anyone who complained. Day after day, night after night, alcohol was the only thing that helped him forget the endless workload and the hollow feeling in his chest.
That night, he drank more than usual.
And then... he passed out.
"Hhrgh..."
After waking up from the gentle breeze brushing against his skin, cool and refreshing. The sound of birds chirping echoed softly in the distance, their songs overlapping in a way that felt calming almost unreal. The air smelled clean, filled with the scent of wood and nature.
"...Huh?"
As he tried to move, his vision blurred. The world spun slightly, his consciousness slipping away again. Panic flared, and he gritted his teeth, refusing to fall back into darkness.
No. I'm awake. I have to stay awake.
He forcefully stood up, his legs trembling beneath him. The dizziness slowly faded but something felt off.
...Why do I feel small?
He looked around the room.
Everything was wooden. The walls, the floor, the ceiling beams simple, rustic, and completely unfamiliar. The bed was larger than he expected. The desk near the window looked oddly tall.
His heart began to race.
Step by step, he walked toward a mirror beside the desk.
And froze.
Reflected in the mirror was not a twenty-two-year-old man worn down by work and alcohol.
It was a boy.
A young boy with flaming, messy hair and big, round, bright red eyes. His face was unfamiliar yet somehow his own.
Realization hit him like a thunder.
"WHO IS THAT?!"
His scream echoed through the room.
"Is that me?!"
He touched his face, his hair, his smaller body. The boy in the mirror copied every movement perfectly.
Before he could process anything further, heavy footsteps rushed toward the room.
They grew louder.
Faster.
The door suddenly burst open.
"What's wrong?!"
A man barged in, tall and broad, his face rough but familiar in a way that made the boy's chest tighten.
The moment their eyes met, the boy's mouth moved on its own.
"...Dad?"
The man blinked. "What's with you? Did something happen?"
The boy stood there in shock. He knew this man. Not through logic, but through instinct—like a memory that didn't belong to him, yet did.
"Uh... nothing," he said quietly. "I just had a nightmare."
The man sighed heavily. "Geez. You scream like a girl. For a second there I thought you kidnapped some woman and was trying to find help."
The boy stiffened.
What kind of father says that so casually?!
He didn't know whether to be angry or laugh in disbelief. In the end, he said nothing.
The man turned away. "It's already past morning. Get something to eat in the living room and help me with the farm."
With that, he left the room.
Silence returned.
The boy slowly looked back at the mirror.
"...Did i die?" he whispered.
And somehow, after working himself to death, he had woken up as a child in an unfamiliar world one filled with wooden rooms, farms, and a man he instinctively called father.
This wasn't a peaceful afterlife.
This was a second life.
And it had just begun.