I no longer worried about the passage of time; I had come to the conclusion that it was useless to obsess over something I could not understand. Sooner or later, I would discover it. For now, I was content to feel how my body grew day by day and how boredom was gradually being alleviated. Although walking was still difficult for me, I could not help but fantasize about the day when my wrists and ankles would finally obey my orders. Without realizing it, a smile of satisfaction was drawn on my face.

As days passed, I felt increasingly comfortable in my new body. The joy I experienced at being able to move by myself, even if only by crawling, was indescribable. My parents shared that happiness, practically jumping with excitement every time I achieved a new milestone in my development.

The day I pronounced my first word remained etched in my memory. After much practicing in secret, I finally dared to open my mouth and say:

—...Mom.

It was a word I had stopped using in my previous life, and for a moment I wondered if I should feel uncomfortable pronouncing it. However, upon seeing Adelaide's face, I knew it had been worth overcoming that discomfort. I wanted to call her that; I wanted her to hear me.

Adelaide's reaction was even more emotional than when I first crawled. Her smile was radiant, and even Atlas, who was usually more reserved, showed overflowing joy. For me, recognizing my mother was the first step to fully embracing this new life.

Thanks to Adelaide and Atlas's dedication, constantly talking to me, I gradually assimilated the language. Atlas had even decorated the room's wall with a letter mural, perhaps intending for the letters' shape to make a good impression on me, similar to the belief that listening to classical music benefits babies in the womb.

I enormously enjoyed these learning moments. With a mischievous smile, I would point to a letter and ask, —What is... this?

Adelaide, delighted with my curiosity, would hurry to explain. The happiness was mutual: I was glad to learn and Adelaide to teach. —Atlas! Ars is amazing!

—You're right. Ars is... —Atlas would respond, although I still did not understand all the words, I recognized my name.

"Ars," Was this my full name or a nickname? In any case, I liked how it sounded.

I felt immensely fortunate to be able to experience my family's unconditional love from such an early age. I thoroughly enjoyed my new life as a baby, despite the less glamorous aspects like the lack of control over my bladder and intestines. All I had to do was cry for my parents to rush to change my diaper, and although I was embarrassed to admit it, I enjoyed those caresses.

I had no worries. My life was easy and filled with the love my parents showered upon me. However, as soon as I could crawl, I began exploring my surroundings, eager to better understand the type of home I lived in.

One day, taking advantage of a moment when no one was watching me, I ventured down the hallway, rolling over the wide red carpet. From my low perspective, everything seemed enormous and mysterious. Every time I approached a door and someone came out, they quickly returned me to my crib, but that did not discourage my curiosity.

I continued my exploration, passing through a room being cleaned and reaching another door slightly ajar. Upon peering in, I saw a practically empty room with only a chair and a desk. The loneliness emanating from that space intrigued me, but I decided to move forward.

The next stop on my tour revealed that I was on the second floor of the house. Upon reaching the descending stairs, I stopped, aware of the danger they represented for my small body.

Turning toward the adjacent room, I discovered what seemed to be a study. An elegant desk dominated the space, flanked by shelves filled with carefully ordered books. Although the curiosity about those tomes gnawed at me, I knew I could not yet reach them, not even using a small chair.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Well, let's go to the next room, I thought, ready to continue my adventure. Suddenly, the sound of a voice and approaching footsteps put me on alert. Before I could decide what to do, a young woman appeared climbing the stairs. Unlike Adelaide, she did not have pointed ears, which indicated she was human. I supposed she must be a servant.

The young woman, surprised to find me so far from my crib, exclaimed:

—How did you end up in a place like this? It's still too early for you to be crawling.

I remained silent, observing her with curiosity.

—...How the hell did you do it? —the young woman muttered, more to herself than to me, while picking me up to return me to my room.

As time passed, I began to feel increasingly frustrated with the limitations of my infant body. It was difficult to accept that I could not do things I was actually capable of doing. Because of this, I began to sleep during the day and take advantage of the nights to practice in secret.

Although I was not sure what was considered normal for a baby in this world, I did not want to draw too much attention. So, when everyone slept, I would stealthily leave my crib and move with the agility of a cat. The first thing I would do was change my diaper.

I perfectly understood why babies cry when they have a wet diaper, and that damp sensation tremendously bothered me. Despite having grown enough to stand by myself, my little bladder remained a challenge. Even after Adelaide changed me before sleeping, my diaper would be wet again.

Carefully, I would dispose of the dirty diaper, throwing it precisely in the basket meant for it. Then, I would head to the corner where my parents had stacked the blankets, a place I had mentally marked as safe for my night practices.

Seeing a ten-month-old baby changing his diaper and practicing his first steps in the middle of the night, when everyone slept, would have been a disturbing scene for any casual observer. But I did not worry about that; I had a clear objective and was determined to achieve it. With patience and perseverance, I repeated my movements over and over, paying no attention to the passage of time. I would only stop when my small infant body reached the limit of exhaustion.

Panting, I observe the room around me. From this new perspective, everything seemed different. The furniture rose like skyscrapers, and shadows extended forming dark valleys between them.

—One step at a time —I reminded myself.

Cautiously, I got on all fours. This position was more familiar to me; I had spent the last few weeks exploring the room this way under my parents' or sister's watchful gaze. But tonight I was not here to crawl. Tonight I was going to walk.

Slowly, I began to move one of my legs, trying to place my foot flat on the floor. My muscles trembled from the fear of falling again. After several attempts, I managed to place one foot firmly on the floor.

Very well, now the other. With great effort, I managed to place my other foot on the floor. Now I was squatting, my small hands still supported on the carpet to maintain balance. I could feel my legs trembling, unaccustomed to supporting my weight this way.

Here we go, it's time to stand up.

Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, I began to straighten my legs. I could feel my body swaying dangerously, threatening to fall at any moment. With determination rivaling anything I had felt in my previous life, I continued pushing. My legs stretched more and more until finally...

I was standing.

For a brief moment, I felt euphoric. I had done it, I was standing for the first time in this new life. But my celebration was premature.

As soon as I let go of the carpet, my body began to stagger. The world around me seemed to spin and undulate. I waved my arms frantically, trying to maintain balance, but it was in vain.

With a stifled cry, I fell backward, landing with a dull sound on my rear, cushioned by the diaper. The impact was less painful this time, dampened by the thick diaper, but the frustration was overwhelming.

I felt tears beginning to form in my eyes. I tried to contain myself, but that was not something a baby could easily do. A soft, broken cry escaped my lips. It was not the inconsolable cry of a scared baby, but the silent cry of a frustrated adult trapped in a child's body.

Why is it so difficult?, I thought between tears. I used to be able to run marathons, and now I cannot even stand for a second. But even as I cried, a part of me refused to give up. I had faced much harder challenges in my previous life; this was just another obstacle to overcome. Wiping my tears with my small hands, I took a deep, trembling breath. "It's okay, one more time. I can do it."

I began the process again. I got on all fours, then squatted, and finally, with a titanic effort, managed to stand up again. I straightened my posture and carefully balanced myself with arms extended as if on a tightrope. Slowly, very slowly, I lowered my foot.

Finally, I took a step. My heart was beating strongly in my chest; I had done it. I had taken my first step. Now, only thousands more remained. Two steps.

However, after the first step, I lost my balance and fell, waving my arms, almost touching the blankets. That day, I could not walk more, so I dragged myself to my crib, climbed up, and prepared to sleep, exhausted but satisfied with my progress.