AN: Well... guess who is alive! Despite the fact that I haven't updated anything in years, I'm not actually giving up on any of my other stories. As I have said before, writing is just a hobby for me so whenever it is I figure what to do with my stories I will make sure to get them on here. Until then here's a story that I wrote the help of my friend DraconicFeline13. Enjoy! :3

Disclaimer: i do not in any way own anything but me own characters.

Renatus

Chapter 1 : Rebirth

From the moment I was born, I remembered.

I remembered my old life, and who I used to be.

(...)

She is one week old, and the world is confusing. Everything is a blend of familiar and yet not familiar: The feel of blankets, the taste of milk, the warmth of her mother's arms. She can hear noises and see blurred images, but she doesn't know what they mean—and yet she recognizes them somehow.

It's almost as if she's heard and seen these things before.

She is three months old, and surrounded by people. She doesn't know who these people are, but her mother is holding her—she can see her face clearly, and hear the sound of her voice—so everything must be okay.

The surrounding noise fades into the background as she stares at her mother's face. One moment she is serene, comforted, content—the next moment she feels a sharp jab of anxiety. A different face has flashed into her mind, one that she instinctively recognizes, and suddenly the woman holding her has become a stranger.

This person is not her mother.

Where is her mother?

She screws up her face and wails. She is completely inconsolable for the next several hours, and neither her parents nor any of the guests in the room can figure out what caused her sudden distress.

(...)

She is eight months old, playing with toys in her crib. She has gotten better at linking sounds with images, and she knows the name of every object she can get her hands on, though she hasn't been able to form any coherent words herself yet.

Her mother enters the room, softly calling out a morning greeting; the infant recognizes her voice and smiles. By now she has made peace with the fact that this person really is her mother, though she often blends together with the "other mother" in her mind.

Her smile fades as her mother starts addressing her directly. It's the same as always; "Good morning, Kyoko"; "How are you feeling, Kyoko"; "Do you want some food, Kyoko"—Kyoko, Kyoko. She squirms, frustrated. She knows the sound refers to her, but the sound is wrong.

For the past few months she had been ignoring it; it couldn't be her name. They kept getting it wrong. Her refusal to acknowledge or respond to it in any way was mistaken as an inability to understand; her parents had been saying it more and more frequently lately, trying to get her used to the sound. Maybe she just didn't understand that they were talking to her. Maybe there was something about the vocal cue she wasn't picking up on.

After the twelfth "Kyoko" that morning, her frustration peaks. Her mother goes to pick her up, and she utters her first comprehensible sound, her first word:

"Mary."

(...)

At first there were only hints—flashes of familiarity, a sense of when something was wrong or different from what I knew before. I remembered everything, but my brain wasn't developed enough to retain most of the information. It wasn't until I was about two years old that I began to fully understand.

I'd had another life. I had died—and then been reborn.

My opinion on reincarnation based on my own experience is that it is very simple, and random: A body dies, a body is born, the soul moves. Usually when this happens, the mind is wiped clean—prevented from ever fully recalling the memories of its past lives, so as not to damage the infant's brain. The human brain is generally incapable of storing enough memory for two separate lives, though some people can remember bits and pieces of their past selves in dreams. Occasionally, and in the rarest of cases, a mutation occurs in the newborn brain that allows a complete recollection of their past life without harm.

Well, almost complete recollection. I don't remember how I died. But to be perfectly honest, it doesn't interest me. It happened, I can't change it, and I've moved on to a new life since then—literally—so does it really matter?

As for the rest…well, the truth is, even though I can remember things about my past life—with perfect clarity, in fact—it doesn't necessarily mean I know how to do them anymore. I live in Japan right now, but in my past life, I was born in America—I can replay conversations I had with people like a video in my head, and I remember what the conversation was about, but the words themselves don't mean anything. That's because in this life, I haven't learned how to speak English. I also know I had a master's degree in Bioinformatics, and I remember all the information I learned, but not any of the skills needed to perform in the field. It's almost as if I'm watching somebody else's life from their perspective, except that I can remember how everything felt, so I know the memories are mine.

It can get confusing. And it's very difficult to explain. It was even more challenging for me, as a child, trying to figure out who I really was and why all these other memories were intruding on my life. I grew to accept my name fairly quickly after my initial defiance, even before I knew what had happened. As soon as I understood, the world started to make sense, and I was almost able to cope with the memories of my old life.

But the most difficult part was when I realized exactly what world I had been reborn into.

(...)

She is three and a half, and her parents are leaving again.

"Now Kyoko, be good, okay?" Her mother kneels down to give her one last hug. Daddy is already waiting for her outside. "Don't give Yuko any trouble."

"Okay," Kyoko says reluctantly, wishing she could go with them. Yuko has come over to watch her several times before, but Kyoko is shy by nature, still unaccustomed to spending much time without her parents, and hates being left behind.

"Don't worry," Yuko says to her confidently as the door shuts behind her mother's retreating back. Yuriko Sawada is her full name, but Kyoko still has trouble with words more than three syllables long. So to her, she is Yuko. "We'll have fun, right, Kyoko?"

She nods, looking up at her, and only then notices the oval-shaped handbag she has hanging from her shoulder. Kyoko stares at it curiously. Yuko never brought that bag with her before. Maybe there's a treat inside it—a new game, or a snack?

Yuriko notices the toddler's fixed gaze and quickly leans over to take her hand. "Come on. Come with Yuko, okay?" She gently pulls Kyoko towards the room with all of her favorite books and toys. "Let's go read a book together!"

Kyoko spends the next hour or so playing games and looking through picture books. All the while, Yuriko never removes the bag from her shoulder. In fact, whenever she thinks Kyoko isn't looking, she quickly opens the pouch to check on whatever is inside.

"Hey…Yuko?"

The older girl gives a start of surprise, not knowing she was being watched. "Y-Yes, Kyoko, what is it?"

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That." She points at the bag.

"O-Oh. Oh!" Yuriko gives a small laugh, casually brushing back a strand of brown hair that had come loose from her hairband. "That's…that's not anything, Kyoko, don't worry. Nothing for you to worry about! Just…boring, adult stuff."

Kyoko nods, somewhat dissatisfied with this answer, but losing interest fast. There are much more interesting things right in front of her—fun, not-mysterious things.

For the rest of the night, Yuriko is unusually distracted. She doesn't check on her bag anymore now that she knows Kyoko is paying attention, but she takes a while to respond when Kyoko asks her a question, and she constantly makes small mistakes during their games. It's almost Kyoko's bedtime when Yuriko realizes she forgot to make her anything for dinner.

"Sorry, Kyoko—really sorry!" Yuriko scrambles to her feet, looking mortified. "I just—Yuko lost track of time, that's all. I don't know what's wrong with me today," she adds under her breath as she flees to the kitchen, leaving Kyoko sitting by herself and staring after her in confusion. Yuko has never acted like this before. But her attention quickly refocuses back to picture she was working on (a lovely drawing of a cat in blue crayon), which keeps her occupied for the next ten minutes or so.

Then she hears a startled cry coming from the kitchen, and a loud crash. Kyoko gets up and races into the hallway, more out of curiosity than alarm, peering around a corner to see what's going on.

Yuriko is standing with her back to the sink, clutching at the counter with both hands. The mysterious handbag whose contents she was so intent on keeping hidden now lies on the counter behind her, wide open and empty. The rice she was in the process of making is now decorating the floor, as is the pan she was frying it in, but Yuriko doesn't seem to have even noticed. Instead she stares, wide-eyed with shock, at the small patterned egg floating in midair directly in front of her.

An egg?

Kyoko blinks. Somewhere, within the deepest recesses of her mind, a memory stirs. She has seen this image before—many, many times.

There is a soft cracking sound, and then another, and then several more; then the egg bursts open, and the shell dissolves into thin air.

Kyoko gapes. A tiny fairy-like creature now floats in the air in front of Yuriko. It has the resemblance of a human child, with dark and flowing waist-length hair, a round pink face, large blue eyes, a flower-patterned dress and no shoes. She stretches and yawns in midair, and when she focuses her gaze on Yuriko, a cheerful grin spreads across her face.

"Hiya!" Even her voice is high-pitched and childlike, though her next words are spoken with the eloquence of a young adult. "About time; I was starting to worry you'd never let me hatch!"

"I—you—" Yuriko stammers. "That voice—in my head—that was you?"

"Of course! Geez, my egg was born weeks and weeks ago; you didn't realize?" The fairy crosses her arms and huffs. "You need to start trusting your would-be self!"

"My—my what?"

"Your would-be self. That's me!" She twirls in midair, stopping when she catches a glimpse of Kyoko, still watching from the sidelines. "Oh, look, we have an audience—huh. How come she can see me?"

A voice echoes in Kyoko's head, unbidden. "Those who are too young to have given birth to their heart's egg can also see them…in other words, the age where precise dreams and desires have yet to form. It may be because they still see the world with a pure heart, through unclouded and unworried eyes."

"A pure heart…" she whispers.

The fairy tilts her head, puzzled. Then she shrugs and returns her attention back to Yuriko. "Time for a proper introduction—my name is Nami. And your name is Yuriko Sawada!" Her wide, childlike grin reappears, and she floats a few inches closer. "I'm glad we can finally meet!"

Yuriko presses herself tighter against the counter, looking stunned and almost afraid. "But—what—what are you?"

"Weren't you listening?" Nami scowls, her smile vanishing in an instant. "Sheesh, pay attention! I'm your would-be-self, the person you want to be. You wished for me, remember? You wished to become a stronger and truer self. And then my egg was born, but you didn't have the strength to call me out until today. I'm Nami, your would-be self, and I'm what's known as a—"

"Shugo Chara."

It isn't Yuriko that utters the phrase in an awed whisper. Nami spins around in surprise, and Yuriko tears her gaze from the little fairy for the first time, and for a few moments nobody says anything—the two of them staring at Kyoko, Kyoko staring back.

Then Nami begins to smile again, and she nods, her eyes glimmering with approval.

"That's right!"

(...)

Shugo Chara. An anime I had watched as I was growing up. A show about discovering the person you really are inside, in the form of small fairies called, well, Shugo Chara. In my past life, I had loved it. Now, apparently, I am living it.

I've had a few years to think about this. My theory is that in every version of reality, there are ideas that are born, ideas that go against the laws of the current universe—these are what turn into fictional stories. But maybe…maybe those ideas aren't actually just ideas. Maybe we are only capable of imagining impossible things because they really exist somewhere else, in an alternate universe.

I can't explain how this is possible. I shouldn't even be able to remember my past life at all. But if you think about it…we have no way of knowing whether or not alternate realities actually exist. We have no evidence one way or another—except for the testimonies of people. People who will often be dismissed as crazy or delusional for telling their stories, but who are the only source of information we have about these sorts of concepts.

People like me.