The time to think gets to you and my mind been wondering to dangerous territory. Did Nurse Elena cry for me when I died? Was she even upset? Did I even matter in that other life? I mean, I can barely remember anything from my past life other than the fact that I spent it alone, with nobody to care about me besides a nurse that was paid to do it. But now... now I’ve got this. This new life. This weird, bizarre, oddly nostalgic life as Ciro, son of Erin Valdris.
I went back out to explore the hallway today, a sprawling expanse of smooth wooden floors and echoing emptiness. At least, it was to me—currently six pounds of squishy baby, trying to navigate the world on hands and knees that felt like wet noodles. Each crawl was an event. Each inch of progress felt like summiting a mountain. And the worst part? My diaper squished with every movement. It was a cruel reality check of my new, humiliating situation.
The walls loomed over me, lined with the portraits of Valdris ancestors, their faces set in stern judgment. One man in particular caught my attention this time. He had a sharp nose, a bushy mustache, and a stare so piercing it could probably curdle milk. His dark grassy eyes seemed to follow me as I crawled past, as if silently questioning why a member of their once-great lineage was currently leaving a trail of drool on the expensive carpet.
"I'm working on it, alright?" I mumbled to myself, which came out more like, "Bluh-bah-mmmph." A baby’s vocal cords don’t exactly lend themselves to eloquence.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of grunting and sliding around on my belly like a very determined slug, I reached a doorway that seemed... different. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and old paper—familiar, comforting scents that tickled something deep in my fragmented memories. The library.
To my underdeveloped baby brain, the place might as well have been a cathedral. Shelves stretched up into the heavens (or at least seven feet high), packed with books of every shape and size. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through tall windows, giving the room an almost magical glow. If there was any place in this house where I could start piecing together the puzzle of my new life, it was here.
I scanned the lower shelves with my big, wide baby eyes, searching for anything within reach. Most of the titles were too worn to read, but one caught my attention: The First Valdris: Killer of Blasphemous. The lettering was embossed in gold, bold and regal, practically screaming "important family history inside!" I had to know.
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I lunged for it—or, well, I flopped toward it like a turtle trying to escape the sand. My chubby hands managed to grab the spine, and with a strength I didn’t know I had, I yanked the heavy book off the shelf. Unfortunately, my victory was short-lived. The book landed with a THUD that might as well have been a cannon shot in the dead-silent library.
"Shit," I thought—or at least, whatever the baby equivalent of "shit" is. "Goo-gah?" Maybe.
But there was no going back now. I flipped the cover open, my stubby fingers struggling to turn the first page. The paper was thick, almost leathery, and the text was written in a script so ornate it looked like the words were trying to dance off the page. I couldn’t make out most of it, but one phrase stood out: “The Valdris Bloodline: Bound by Oath, Strengthened by Sacrifice.”
Yeah, that sounded ominous. And not at all like the type of family motto that ends in financial ruin and a house full of empty rooms.
Before I could dive deeper, though, I heard footsteps.
They were light, almost hesitant, but growing louder by the second. Panic set in. If whoever it was saw me like this—a baby sprawled on the floor with a book three times his size—they’d probably lose their minds.
The footsteps stopped just outside the doorway. A moment later, a head peeked around the corner. It was my mother.
She had soft, wavy brown hair that framed her delicate features, with hazel eyes that seemed to always hold a trace of worry. She wasn’t dressed like the noblewomen I’d seen in paintings—no flowing gowns or intricate jewelry. Instead, she wore a simple dress, practical but elegant in its own way, like she was always ready to either host a guest or scrub a floor if the maid was busy.
Her gaze fell on me, and for a second, she just stood there, frozen. Then her face lit up with an excitement that was frankly embarrassing.
"Erin!" she called, her voice bubbling with joy. "Come look! He’s trying to read!"
I groaned internally. Of course that’s what she focused on. Not the fact that I had somehow managed to crawl all the way here or that I had picked out a very specific, potentially family-defining book. Nope. Just "look at my baby being a little genius!"
Her giggles filled the room as she crouched down to scoop me up. I barely had time to close the book before her hands were under my arms, lifting me into the air like I weighed nothing.
"You’re going to be so smart, aren’t you?" she cooed, pressing her nose to mine. Her breath smelled faintly of tea and honey. "My little genius."
I tried to roll my eyes, but again, baby. All I could do was let out a defeated gurgle as she cradled me close, swaying slightly.
As she carried me out of the library, her voice humming a soft tune, I couldn’t help but glance back at the book on the floor.
Someday, I promised myself. Someday, I’d read every word of it. I’d figure out this family’s secrets, this world’s rules, and maybe—just maybe—I’d figure out why fate thought it was funny to shove me into a diaper. But for now?
I was just a baby. And my mother was far too pleased about it.