"How long have I been drifting in this void?"

The question echoed in my mind, swallowed up by the endless darkness around me. I had lost track of time—if time even existed here. It felt like I was caught in an eternal limbo, my thoughts drifting through the abyss, scattered and fragmented.

"Why did Yuui give me a chance?"

I could barely hold onto the memory of her, like trying to grasp mist. Everything felt distant, like a dream slipping away. Then, out of the darkness, I saw it—a faint glimmer, far off, flickering like a distant star.

"What is that light? A star?"

It was small at first, barely visible, but it grew stronger, cutting through the shadows. Warmth began to seep into me, a sensation I hadn't realized I'd missed. Then, I heard it—a sound, faint and garbled, like it was coming from far away, muffled by the dark.

"What is that noise?"

The sounds grew louder, clearer, like they were calling to me, pulling me closer. I couldn't make out the words, but there was a sense of urgency, of something real and alive. The warmth spread, enveloping me, dragging me out of the dark and into blinding light.

"***** ***** *******" ("...baby is out! Baby is out!")

The words echoed through the light, strange and unfamiliar. They didn't make sense, but they were filled with an excitement, a kind of joy.

"Why is my vision so blurry? Why do my eyes hurt?"

I tried to blink, but my vision was blurry, and my eyes stung, like they weren't used to the brightness. Everything felt heavy, like I was fighting to wake up from a deep sleep.

"Waaah! Waaah!"

The crying was louder now, sharp and piercing, but it wasn't mine. It was coming from somewhere nearby, echoing around me. I could hear voices, softer this time, trying to comfort the source of the cries.

"**** **** **** *** ****"("Both are healthy, no need to worry," )

For the first time, I felt something real—something solid, tangible. I was being held, cradled in warmth. The crying continued, louder and more insistent, and I could hear the rustle of fabric, the murmur of voices around me.

"*** **** ****" ("Hold them carefully,")

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but slowly, the blur began to fade. Shapes formed, colors bleeding into each other until they became clear. I blinked, trying to make sense of it, and then I saw her—a woman, cradling something in her arms, her face illuminated by a soft, warm light.

She was beautiful. Long, dark hair framed her face, and her eyes were gentle, dark yet warm. Her eyelashes were long, casting shadows across her cheeks as she looked down at what she held. There was something familiar about her, something that tugged at a place deep inside me, stirring emotions I didn't recognize.

"Who is she?"

I couldn't understand what I was seeing. I looked down, following her gaze, and saw two tiny, wriggling figures in her arms, swaddled in soft, white blankets.

Two newborns, their small faces flushed, their tiny hands grasping at the air. One of them was crying, the sound raw and demanding, while the other was quiet, eyes shut tight, as if still adjusting to this new, strange world.

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"Am I… seeing this? Is this… me?"

I felt a strange, overwhelming sense of familiarity, as if I was connected to this moment, yet completely detached from it. The woman's gentle smile, the warmth of the light, the cries of the newborns—it felt like a beginning, a new chapter, but I couldn't tell if I was a part of it, or just a silent observer.

The light grew brighter, consuming everything, and I felt myself slipping, my senses fading in and out. The last thing I saw before the light swallowed me was her smile, soft and gentle, and the way her eyes sparkled as she whispered,"*** **** ****** ******" ("Welcome to the world, little ones…")

And then, everything went dark.

Six Months Later

It's been half a year since I was reborn into this world—a fact that still feels surreal, even now. Six months of trying to make sense of my new reality, of adjusting to a body that wasn't mine, but also was. I can understand the language around me now, at least most of it. It's strange how easily the words come to me, even if I can't speak them yet. My tongue doesn't quite cooperate; it's like trying to wield a sword with no training, clumsy and awkward.

Crawling is another challenge. Who would have thought that something so simple could be so exhausting? Every time I try, my tiny limbs protest, wobbling and weak. I can only manage to move a few inches before I collapse, panting, my heart pounding in my chest as if I've just fought a battle. The most infuriating part? Watching her—my twin—dart around the room with ease, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

My twin sister, for all her boundless energy, is a sight that's impossible to ignore. She has eyes that catch the light like precious gems—blue ruby eyes, vibrant and deep, she is always so full of energy, constantly moving, exploring every corner, every shadow, every flicker of light. I see her tiny hands reaching out, grabbing at anything within reach, her eyes bright and curious. Her laughter fills the room, echoing off the walls, and she never seems to tire. It's almost… unfair.

How can she be so energetic all day? I wonder, watching her from my spot on the floor, struggling to keep my head up. She crawls past me, a blur of giggles and tiny hands, while I can barely muster the strength to lift myself onto all fours. Even though we're twins, she's like a storm, and I… well, I'm a calm, tired puddle in her wake.

I've noticed other differences between us, too. She's louder, bolder, her presence bright and undeniable. She doesn't hesitate to reach for what she wants, whether it's a toy, a shiny object, or even our mother's attention. Meanwhile, I find myself observing more than acting, listening to the voices around me, piecing together words and meanings. I'm not sure if it's just because I'm quieter, or if there's something deeper to it.

I guess, even though we are twins, I'm weaker than her.

The thought stings more than I'd like to admit. I was once powerful—so powerful that the mere mention of my name would strike fear into those who heard it. Now, I can't even crawl across a room without feeling like I've run a marathon. It's a strange, humbling existence, one that I'm still struggling to accept.

Our mother is always there, watching over us with a gentle smile, her dark hair falling around her shoulders like a curtain of night. She never shows any preference between us; her eyes light up the same way whether she's holding me or my sister. But I can't help noticing how her arms seem to follow my twin more often, how her laughter rises when my sister is nearby.

I've caught myself reaching out sometimes, my tiny fingers stretching toward her, but the words I want to say—"I'm here too, don't forget about me"—never come. I wonder if she sees it, if she knows.

It's a peculiar thing, this new life. Every day feels like a step forward and a step back, a strange mix of discovery and frustration. I'm learning to adapt, to find my place in this small, new world. And yet, there's a part of me that still clings to who I was, to the memories that linger at the edges of my thoughts, like echoes of a dream.

I don't know what this life has in store for me, or why I was given this second chance. But as I lie here, listening to the soft murmurs of my family, to the gentle rhythm of my sister's laughter, I can't help but feel that there's something important waiting for me, something I have yet to understand.

In moments of stillness—rare, but they do happen—she'll sit beside me, her tiny fingers brushing against mine, her blue ruby eyes flicking toward me with a gaze that's both curious and kind. And in those moments, I almost forget the differences between us, and I'm reminded that, despite everything, we're connected. Two halves of a whole, as different as night and day, yet bound by something deeper, something unspoken.

She's the storm, and I'm the calm, but we are twins, and there is a comfort in that, a strange, unspoken bond that exists between us, even if I still can't fully understand it.

For now, I'll keep trying. I'll crawl, I'll watch, I'll learn. And maybe, just maybe, I'll find the strength to be more than just the weaker twin.