Prologue: A Second Round?
"…I hope we'll find each other again in our next life."
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"Fuck… that could've killed me..."
My breath comes in sharp, shallow gasps as I stare at my small hand, still outstretched toward the sun. It's shaking, my entire body shaking. And it hurts. My chest feels tight—like I can't draw enough air in. The pressure is unbearable. I clutch at my heart instinctively, gasping for a breath that won't come.
I try to sit up, but the world tilts and my stomach churns.
Unable to stop myself, I roll to my side and throw up.
When the nausea finally fades, leaving me feeling hollow, I mutter to myself, "I… I did die."
No, wait. I'm here. Am I? Did I die?
I blink, shaking my head. "What the hell was that!?"
Everything feels wrong—like something fundamental shifted inside me.
I try to push myself up, but my legs, tiny and unsteady, betray me. They tangle in each other as I stagger. Before I can steady myself, I lose my balance completely and roll down the embankment. My body hits the ground with a thud, tumbling helplessly until I come to a jarring stop.
I lie there, then I look down at the vast ocean stretching out, hundreds of meters below. Between me and the endless drop, a sturdy fence running along the edge, barely holding anyone back from falling —like I almost did.
This place… I'm on Dad's—no, our floating island.
But wasn't I just… grown up a minute ago? How did I end up here? What happened?
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The memory of my death—if that's what it was—lingers like a dream just out of reach. It feels vivid, yet impossibly distant. My heart pounds as I try to piece it together. What happened? How am I here?
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Everything is a mess.
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Trying to order everything in my head…
I remember lying here before. Same place, same situation. Not too long ago… or maybe a long time ago? It feels like déjà vu, but it's more than that. It's vivid, painfully clear.
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"What… happened to me?"
The sun dips lower on the horizon, staining the sky a shades of orange and purple. The air cools, prickling my skin. I need to go home, but my legs feel like they belong to someone else.
Slowly, my thoughts begin to clear a little. I think. The events from earlier are piecing themselves together in a more coherent way.
First, there was a hit—then a scolding, followed by the apology from me. And when Mistress Zola saw me father brought me to the shed—the one my brother and I called home whenever Zola was around.
None of that is surprising; I could've predicted it. Wait… predicted?
The word feels heavy, strange. Why does it make sense? And why would I run away? I knew it would only make things worse. It only hurts me and my parents.
But I did it anyway. Why? Did I hurt them? Did I really hurt them?
Caught in the spiral of my thoughts, I barely notice when my older brother, Nicks, talking to me. He must think I'm stuck on my reading exercise again.
I glance at him, my chest tightening further as a memory—no, this memory—plays out in my mind. The conversation we're about to have, I already know it. "Bro" It feels odd, calling him that, but it's what I said before.
He blinks at me, surprised by my tone. His reaction and answers match what I remember.
It's like my memories. How do I know all of this?
Did I somehow see the future?
No... it's not just that.
Did I "reincarnate" again? Back to the same time and place, just like in these so-called "memories"?