Life? Yeah, life was good.

No, scratch that—life was great.

I wasn't just some aimless guy floating through it. I had a purpose. I was a college graduate, for crying out loud, and not just any graduate. Top scores. Dean's list. All the gold stars they could slap on a record, that was me. Literature major, too.

Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want about the starving artist stereotype, but guess who'd just been offered a sweet gig teaching up in North Dakota? This guy.

And I wasn't alone in this charmed little slice of life, either. Married young, sure, but that worked out for me. My wife, bless her heart, was the kind of person who could light up a room with just a smile. No fancy degrees or anything, but she didn't need them. She had more soul in her than any of those polished intellectuals I hung out with during my university years. Together, we were building something. A future.

Oh, and my folks? They were part of that dream, too. I'd brought them out to live with us in our little cottage in Los Angeles. Nothing too flashy, but cozy. Homey. They'd worked their butts off raising me, so giving them a peaceful place to spend their later years felt like the least I could do.

It was the kind of setup people dream about. The kind of life you take a deep breath and thank the universe for. And I was grateful. I really was.

But here's the thing about good lives: they've got a nasty habit of being fragile.

It started on a random day, a Tuesday maybe? I don't know. It wasn't anything special. The sun was shining, people were going about their business, and I was walking down the street, heading back from grabbing some groceries. The world was in its usual rhythm, and I was part of it. Just another guy in the crowd.

Then I saw them—two kids, teenagers probably, standing on the curb of a busy street. They were laughing about something, earbuds in, oblivious to the world around them. I wouldn't have noticed them at all if it weren't for the fact that they were inching closer to the edge of the curb, like they were planning to dart across the road.

Now, this wasn't some sleepy little side street. This was a full-on, cars-whipping-by-at-50-miles-per-hour kind of road. The kind where one wrong step could get you plastered across someone's windshield. And that's exactly where these idiots were heading.

I don't know what came over me. Instinct, maybe? A sense of duty? Hell, maybe I just wanted to prove to myself that I was one of the good guys. Whatever it was, the moment I saw them take that first step onto the asphalt, I moved.

"Hey! Stop!" I yelled, but they didn't hear me. Too caught up in their little bubble of music and whatever dumb joke they were laughing at.

The truck came out of nowhere. Big, loud, barreling down the road like it owned the place. There wasn't time to think.

I ran.

I reached them just as the truck was a few feet away. My hands grabbed their shoulders, shoving them back onto the curb. For a split second, I thought I'd done it. I'd saved them.

And then came the squash.

Pain. Blinding, searing pain. The kind that makes you wish you could black out just so you wouldn't have to feel it anymore. My body wasn't a body anymore; it was a crushed, mangled mess. I couldn't even tell what was broken because everything was broken.

The truck had slammed into me, throwing me like a rag doll onto the pavement. My head was spinning, my vision blurry, but I could hear the chaos around me. People screaming. Someone calling for an ambulance.

The kids I'd pushed out of the way were safe. I caught a glimpse of them standing on the curb, their faces pale, their mouths hanging open in shock.

At least I'd done that much.

But me? I was done for, and I knew it.

"Am I... am I going to die?" The thought was more curious than panicked. I could hear the distant wail of sirens, but they sounded so far away, like they were in another world entirely.

My mind started wandering. My parents—oh, God, my parents. They'd cry. They'd sit in that little cottage we called home, staring at the empty chair at the dinner table, wondering how they were supposed to move on without me.

And my wife... my beautiful, sweet wife. What the hell was she going to do? She wasn't some big-city career woman with a six-figure salary. She was just a girl from the country who'd believed in me, who'd built her life around the dream we were chasing together. And now I was leaving her behind.

"We're losing him—!"

The doctor's voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent.

"Crap," I muttered—or at least I thought I did. Maybe it was just in my head. I couldn't tell anymore. My hearing was fading, slipping away into a silence that was more oppressive than any noise could ever be.

And then, it was quiet.

The cold crept in next. It wasn't the kind of cold you feel on a brisk winter morning. No, this was deeper. Colder. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and wraps around your soul, squeezing until there's nothing left.

I couldn't feel the pain anymore. Couldn't hear the voices. Couldn't see anything but the dark void that stretched out in front of me.

So this is it, huh? The end?

Funny thing is, I always thought I'd go out differently. Peacefully, maybe. Surrounded by loved ones, not smeared across the pavement like some tragic cliché.

But life's got a way of throwing curveballs at you, doesn't it?

My life is good. I don't wanna go.

The silence pressed in closer, the cold biting harder. And as the last remnants of my consciousness began to fade, one final thought floated through my mind:

What happens now?

Ī~Ī

Paul Greyrat paced the room like a man possessed, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor of their cozy little home. The air was thick with tension, each second dragging on like an eternity. His heart pounded in his chest as he cast nervous glances toward the bed, where his wife Zenith lay, her face pale and glistening with sweat.

"Is she okay? Lilia, is she okay?" Paul's voice cracked as he directed the question toward their maid, who was currently the only thing standing between Zenith and chaos.

"She's fine," Lilia replied, her voice calm, steady, like a rock in a storm. Her hands moved expertly as she maneuvered Zenith into a more comfortable position. "You, on the other hand, are making things harder by hovering."

Paul gritted his teeth, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He wanted to help, to do something, but what? He was a swordsman, a fighter. His whole life had been about taking action, and now here he was, helpless as the woman he loved fought through the most intense moment of her life.

He felt everything all at once—joy, fear, excitement, anxiety. He was going to be a father. A father. The thought sent shivers down his spine, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Could he handle it? Could he protect his child, teach them, guide them?

"Paul," Zenith whispered, her voice weak but insistent, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. "Breathe."

Right. Breathing. He could do that.

It felt like hours, though in reality, it couldn't have been more than minutes. The tension in the room reached its peak as Zenith let out one final, primal scream. Paul flinched, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table, and then—

The cry.

A sharp, piercing wail that filled the room, cutting through the air like a blade. Paul's heart stopped, then surged as he turned to see Lilia cradling a tiny, squirming figure in her arms.

"It's a boy," Lilia announced, her voice soft but filled with a quiet pride as she held up the crying infant for Paul to see.

Paul's breath caught in his throat. A boy. His son. His son.

The baby's hair caught the light, a brilliant golden hue like rays of sunlight. And those eyes—bright green, as vibrant and alive as the fields in spring. Paul had seen a lot in his life, but nothing had ever left him this awestruck.

Lilia worked with practiced precision, cleaning the newborn and cutting the umbilical cord as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Paul stepped forward, his arms outstretched, his heart ready to burst out of his chest.

"Let me hold him," he said, his voice trembling.

Lilia, however, had other ideas. She brushed past him, ignoring his outstretched hands entirely, and placed the baby gently in Zenith's waiting arms.

"Hey! I'm the father!" Paul protested, but his indignation melted away as he saw Zenith's face light up with pure, unfiltered joy.

Zenith, exhausted but glowing, cradled the tiny boy against her chest. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she gently rocked him, her voice a soft whisper of love and wonder. "He's beautiful," she murmured, pressing a kiss to the baby's forehead.

Paul couldn't resist stepping closer, crouching down beside the bed to get a better look at his son. The baby was still crying, his little fists flailing in the air as if protesting the very idea of being born.

"Hey, hey, buddy," Paul said, his voice dropping into an almost ridiculous cooing tone. "What's with all the noise? It's not so bad out here, huh?"

He started making faces—puffing out his cheeks, crossing his eyes, sticking his tongue out. Anything to get a reaction other than crying. The baby paused for a moment, his bright green eyes locking onto Paul's face with what could only be described as newborn skepticism.

And then—wham.

A tiny foot shot out, catching Paul square on the nose.

"Ah—ow!" Paul recoiled, holding his face as Zenith burst into laughter. Despite her exhaustion, the sound was rich and full of warmth.

"Looks like he takes after me," Zenith said with a sly smile, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Paul pouted, rubbing his nose as he glared playfully at the little kicker. "That's rude, y'know. I'm your dad! Show some respect."

Zenith smiled down at the baby, her voice soft and thoughtful. "His name... it should be Rudeus."

Paul tilted his head, testing the name out on his tongue. "Rudeus Greyrat, huh?" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before a grin spread across his face. "Sounds like a name for a hero. Destined for greatness, just like his dad! A swordsman, no doubt."

Zenith raised an eyebrow, her tone sharp but playful. "Swordsman? Nonsense. He'll be a sorcerer like me. He's already got the eyes for it."

Paul scoffed, crossing his arms as he stood to his full height. "Oh, please. Magic's all well and good, but the kid's got my genes. He's a born fighter. Hand him a sword, and he'll be unstoppable."

"And he'll be just as reckless as you," Zenith shot back, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. "He'll study magic and grow up to be brilliant and careful—everything you're not."

"Brilliant and boring, you mean," Paul retorted. "No way my son's spending his life stuck in a library. He'll be out there, making a name for himself, carving his own path."

"Carving it with a sword, apparently?" Zenith laughed, rolling her eyes.

The playful argument might have gone on forever if not for Lilia, who cleared her throat pointedly. "Master Paul. Mistress Zenith." Her voice was calm but firm, with that edge of authority only Lilia could pull off. "Young Master Rudeus is sensitive to loud sounds."

Paul and Zenith both froze, their heads snapping toward the baby, who was now—miraculously—fast asleep in Zenith's arms. His tiny chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm, his earlier cries forgotten.

"Oh." Paul scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. "Guess we got a little carried away."

Zenith chuckled softly, her eyes never leaving the sleeping baby. "It's okay. He's perfect."

Paul leaned down, brushing a gentle kiss against her temple before murmuring, "Yeah. He really is."

And for a moment, everything was quiet, the world reduced to just the three of them, bathed in the soft glow of the lamplight.

Ī~Ī

It took me days—no, weeks—to come to terms with the cruel joke that was my existence.

I was reborn. Reincarnated. Whatever sick game fate was playing, I was the pawn trapped in the body of an infant. You can't imagine the horror unless you've experienced it yourself. Every aspect of life was now an uphill battle. My limbs were useless noodles, flailing about as if they belonged to someone else. My head felt like a boulder, too heavy for my neck to support. And the worst part? No control over basic bodily functions. Peeing and pooping—things I never thought twice about before—now happened whenever they wanted, not when I wanted.

Dignity? A luxury of my past life.

And then there were the people.

They spoke a language I couldn't understand—strange, flowing syllables that seemed both harsh and melodic. But I wasn't entirely clueless. I was observant, and through their actions and patterns, I began to piece together who they were.

The days blurred together after that, each one a mix of frustration, helplessness, and fleeting moments of quiet observation. I still couldn't understand the language, but I started to pick up on names.

Paul. Zenith. Lilia.

They said the names often enough, and their roles in the household made it easy to connect the dots.

The woman who fussed over me the most was Zenith. She was my mother—or at least, she thought she was. She had this soft, maternal glow about her, always smiling, always humming some incomprehensible tune. She seemed kind, gentle, and genuinely happy to have me in her life.

The man with the rugged build and a loud voice was Paul. My father. He carried himself like a man used to being in charge, but his confidence often bordered on recklessness. He had a boyish charm to him, a grin that could disarm even the sternest face. But I could see it in his eyes—the uncertainty, the doubt. He was as scared of being a father as I was of being his son.

And then there was Lilia. The maid. Quiet, efficient, and sharp as a knife. She moved like a shadow, always there when needed but never drawing attention to herself. There was something about her—a loyalty that ran deep, but also a distance, a wall she kept firmly in place.

They were nice people. Good people, even. But they weren't my people.

I had a life before this—a life I loved. I had just graduated with top scores, my future bright and full of promise. I had a wife—beautiful, kind, everything I could've ever hoped for. We were building a life together, a future. And now...

Now I was a baby. A helpless, drooling, useless baby.

And then there was the nursing.

I don't even know how to explain it. It's not like I wanted to do it—it was instinct, pure and primal. The moment Zenith brought me close, my body took over. I latched on without a second thought, like some kind of animal.

The worst part? It wasn't even bad.

It was warm, comforting, and satisfying in a way that made me hate myself. It was nourishment, pure and simple, but it also felt like submission—like I was giving up another piece of my old self every time. I couldn't stop, though. My body craved it, and my brain couldn't fight against instincts as deeply ingrained as breathing.

It was humiliating.

In those moments, I felt the full weight of what I'd lost. My independence. My dignity. My humanity.

Paul, the father, was loud and brash but undeniably caring in his own way. He was the kind of man who laughed too hard at his own jokes and tried too hard to prove himself. He would scoop me up in his strong arms, bouncing me around like I was some kind of trophy, completely oblivious to my glares.

Zenith, the mother, was warmth personified. Her every touch was gentle, her every word a soothing balm to the chaos that was my new reality. She sang to me, held me close, and looked at me like I was the center of her universe.

And then there was Lilia.

Lilia was the wildcard. She was quiet, reserved, and precise in everything she did. She didn't coddle me like Zenith or play the doting father like Paul. Her care was methodical, almost professional, but not cold. There was something in her eyes, a depth I couldn't quite read.

But no matter how kind they were, no matter how much they doted on me or cared for me, I couldn't shake the bitterness.

I hated this life.

I wanted my old life back. My freedom. My wife. My future.

Sometimes, when the house was quiet, and the only sounds were the crackling of the hearth or the gentle rustle of leaves outside, I would feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. And in those moments, I would see it.

The silver silhouette.

It was always just out of reach, lingering at the edge of my vision. A figure, faint and shimmering, like light reflected on water. It didn't speak or move, but I knew it was watching me.

Whoever—or whatever—it was, it was responsible for this. For me. For ripping me out of my old life and dumping me into this nightmare.

I didn't know why. I didn't know how. But I knew one thing for certain:

That silver figure was my enemy.

Ī~Ī

Author Note: I was in the lab dissecting a Hibiscus rosa-sinensis when this idea suddenly pooped into my mind.

Thanks for giving this a chance. The next chapter will be released depending on your responses.

Drop your thoughts in the review section. Your words motivate me to write better, larger and with more depth.

Till next time!