The air buzzed with quiet tension. Soft footsteps rushed across the marble floor. Drapes swayed in the breeze.
"Master is awake! Call the doctor, quickly!"
The voices didn't sound real at first. They floated in the dark like drifting fog, echoing off the edges of a half-formed mind. A rustle of urgency followed. Someone touched his arm gently, checking his pulse.
"Doctor, why isn't he opening his eyes?"
"He's gained consciousness. Just give him a moment. His mind is still adjusting."
Adjusting? To what?
The world was a blur behind his eyelids. Light poured through them, too bright and foreign.
Where… am I?
Did I survive? No… this doesn't feel like a hospital.
He forced his eyes open, blinking against the golden light. The ceiling above him was carved with unfamiliar symbols. Pillars lined the sides of the room, and sunlight streamed through towering windows wrapped in embroidered drapes.
He was lying on a bed large enough to fit four people, covered in velvet sheets.
A man in white leaned over him, eyes sharp and kind. "Can you hear me?"
A woman gasped and leaned closer, brushing his cheek with trembling fingers. "Sweetheart… it's me. I'm your mother."
His mouth opened, but no sound came. The words felt stuck behind his ribs.
Mother? That can't be right.
"I'll leave the medicine here," the doctor said, bowing politely. "Please make sure he rests. The mind takes time to remember."
As the doctor left, the woman cupped his face in her hands. "Xarl, darling, can you try sitting up? Just a little?"
He did. Slowly. He felt… different. His limbs were lighter. His chest smaller. Even his voice—when he spoke—sounded foreign.
"Sorry but… Who is Xarl? I… I don't think that's my name. I was in an accident. I think I'm in the wrong place."
The woman froze. Her lips parted, then closed. Something flickered in her expression—pain and confusion—but she hid it with a soft smile. "You don't remember me… That's alright. You've been asleep for so long."
He looked at her carefully. Her face was elegant, framed by reddish-blonde hair and eyes full of concern. She looked like no one he'd ever known.
His hands trembled as he raised them into view.
Too small.
Not mine.
"Can I have a mirror?" he asked, his voice cracking.
The maid returned with a silver-framed mirror. He took it with both hands, heart pounding.
What he saw nearly made him drop it.
A boy with tousled chestnut hair and storm-colored eyes stared back. Pale cheeks. Soft jaw. Round features.
This isn't my face. This isn't me.
"Careful, he's still recovering!" the woman warned.
The children pulled back slightly, beaming.
"I'm Sharly!" said the girl with a toothy grin. "This is Rovan—we're your older siblings!"
"Yeah, you've been asleep for so long," Rovan said. "We missed you."
"Get ready to be spoiled!" Sharly added proudly. "You're the youngest now, Pudding!"
He blinked. "Pudding…?"
"Yup!" she nodded. "You always liked sweet things, and your cheeks look squishy when you sleep."
A small laugh escaped him. He hadn't laughed in months—maybe years.
A tall man entered next, quietly. His presence filled the room with calm.
"Xarl." The man's voice was low, careful, holding back emotion. "Welcome back. I'm glad you're awake."
The warmth in the room pressed against his chest, heavy and unfamiliar.
At dinner, silver trays lined the table. Steamed fruit buns, roasted lamb, golden root stew, rose-syrup pudding.
"For me?" he asked, stunned.
"Of course," the mother said. "Your favorites, sweetie."
He picked up a spoon, then froze.
The scent. The glow of the candles. The quiet joy around the table.
His chest ached. Then trembled.
He dropped the spoon and covered his mouth, sobbing quietly.
"Xarl?" his mother asked, alarmed.
He couldn't explain it. He didn't want to.
Tears streamed down. Not from pain. From something else.
I never had this. Not in my old life. Not once. Why now?
Later that night, curled under soft covers, he whispered to himself:
I don't know what this world is. But maybe… this time, I'll live. Really live.