It was nothing like the movies. There wasn’t some black void or ethereal light at the end of a tunnel. It was just… nothing. A blankness so complete that even the idea of existing seemed foreign. I wasn’t floating or suspended in some mystical space. I simply was, and yet, I wasn’t.

It was impossible to describe.

Until something changed.

A tiny flicker of light appeared out of nowhere, the smallest speck, like a distant star in a sky I couldn’t see. It was impossible to focus on it—how could I? I didn’t even have eyes. But still, it was there. And it was growing. No, not growing—coming closer. Or was I moving toward it? It was impossible to tell.

Before I could process it, the nothingness gave way to sensation. A rush of feeling hit me all at once. Pressure. Crushing, suffocating pressure. Something was pushing me, squeezing from all sides, and I couldn’t escape. The weight was unbearable, as if the whole world had collapsed onto me. It built and built until I thought I would break, and then—

Relief.

Air. Cold, sharp air grazed my skin—my skin—and I realized with a jolt that I had a body again. Not just a floating consciousness, but real, tangible skin. And it was alive.

My first instinct was to scream, but what came out wasn’t a scream—it was a cry. A loud, piercing wail that echoed around me. The sound startled me. I couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop the helpless sobs that shook my tiny frame.

And then it hit me. I was a baby.

Panic surged through me. My body was so small, so weak, and I had no control over it. I couldn’t comprehend how this had happened. One moment, I had been dying, my body broken on the street, and now…this? How could I have gone from that to this fragile, newborn state? The disorientation was suffocating.

I could barely process anything beyond the immediate, overwhelming sensations. Everything felt wrong—the tightness in my limbs, the fuzzy vision, the hazy thoughts that barely strung together. I was aware, yes, but not in any way that made sense. The memories of my old life, my old body, were slipping away, replaced by instinct and sensation.

I tried to make sense of it, but it was impossible. My mind, once sharp and focused, was sluggish and confused. It was as if I were trapped in someone else’s body—a body too small, too new, too helpless.

This can’t be happening.

I had read about reincarnation in books, imagined what it might be like to start over in a new life. But none of those stories had prepared me for this. There was no clarity, no epiphany. Just a muddled, frantic awareness that something had gone horribly wrong, and I had been thrown into a new existence without my consent.

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The people around me—whoever they were—spoke in soft, comforting tones. I couldn’t understand them, not really, but their voices were warm, soothing. I felt hands holding me, cradling my small body, and for a moment, that comfort was enough to push the panic back.

The days—or weeks, I couldn’t tell—blurred together in a fog of crying, feeding, and drifting in and out of consciousness. I could barely stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time before exhaustion overtook me. My body was still new, still adjusting to the world outside the womb. Every moment of awareness was brief, fleeting, and followed by long stretches of hazy nothingness.

But eventually, things started to change.

Little by little, I stayed awake longer. My vision, once clouded and unfocused, began to clear. I could make out shapes now—blurry, indistinct figures that I assumed were my parents. They seemed human, at least as far as my newborn eyes could tell. Two arms, two legs, no horns or tails or anything that would suggest I’d been reborn as something other.

But they weren’t the only ones.

I began to notice another figure, smaller than the adults, who often hovered nearby. He looked around six or seven years old, with wide, curious eyes that always seemed to be watching me. His hair was a dark, messy mop, and whenever he came close, I could feel the warmth of his presence. My brother—at least, that’s what I assumed he was—seemed fascinated by me. He would lean over the crib, making funny faces or trying to get me to smile, though I wasn’t sure I could yet.

There was something comforting about him. He felt familiar, in a way that the adults didn’t. Maybe it was the innocent curiosity, or maybe it was just that I sensed we were both part of the same new family. Either way, his presence helped ground me in this strange, disorienting reality.

As time went on, I started noticing even more. The room was filled with small sounds—soft rustling, little chirps and yips that I couldn’t place at first. But then I saw them. Not pets like I was used to, but creatures that moved with a quiet grace or excited energy. I couldn’t make them out clearly, but there were at least two or three different ones. They weren’t dogs or cats, though they seemed to serve a similar purpose.

I felt an odd connection to them, almost like they were more than just pets. Perhaps they were part of the family, too, in a way that went beyond what I had known in my old life. Their presence didn’t scare me—in fact, it was the opposite. Their calm, gentle movements added to the sense of peace that was slowly starting to replace my panic.

Each day, my awareness grew sharper, my mind clearer. I could stay awake longer now, take in more of the world around me. The crib, dark wood and cozy, became a familiar place, though I was starting to long for the day when I could explore beyond it.

What bothered me most was the silence in my mind. Before, I had always been so sure of who I was. My thoughts had been clear, sharp, focused. Now, everything was dulled, like I was moving through fog. My newborn brain simply couldn’t keep up with the weight of my memories, and every time I tried to hold onto something from before, it slipped through my grasp.

But amid the haze, there was one thing I couldn’t forget. One thing that stayed with me, even as the rest of my identity faded.

My last wish.

Before the darkness had taken me, I had wished for more time. I had wanted to live, to find meaning, to feel the thrill of the water again. I had wanted to be part of something greater, something I had only ever imagined. And now, here I was. Reborn. Given a new chance