As consciousness returned, I blinked at indistinct shapes swimming before my eyes, their blurred outlines hinting at a world just out of reach. Moving was hard, as though invisible weights had been strapped to every limb, dragging me down with an oppressive heaviness. With effort, I managed to raise my arms into my line of sight and realized they were tiny. That was when I understood—I was a baby.
The realization hit me like a slow, creeping dawn: it would take years before I could speak, leaving me both awed and frustrated by the long journey ahead. Thinking back to all the isekai books I’d read, where the characters claimed to see their parents as newborns, I dismissed it as pure nonsense, marveling at how such clarity seemed impossible in my current blurry and disoriented state. My hands blurred when I extended them as far as I could, the indistinct motion blending into the haze of my surroundings, making it feel as though I were reaching into a dream.
Remembering those books, I recalled how often the characters had systems and could open their statuses effortlessly. "Status? Character sheet?" I tried various phrases, hoping to activate something, but nothing happened. Without a status, I realized things might be harder than predicted. Still, I resolved to set goals and push myself. Like many reincarnation tales, I held onto the hope that some hidden, overpowered ability might eventually make my life extraordinary. For now, as a baby, that fleeting hope was all I could cling to before sleep overtook me.
This cycle continued for the next year and a half: waking up to a haze of indistinct sights, crying when hunger or discomfort became unbearable, and being soothed as my mom tended to me. Each day followed the same rhythm—crying for food or a diaper change, my small world confined to basic needs and fleeting moments of calm in her embrace. Although I didn’t want to cry, my body instinctively reacted with tears whenever hunger gnawed at me or discomfort crept in, a raw and automatic response that underscored my infantile helplessness. It was infuriating to constantly be in a state of hunger and exhaustion, yet oddly, there was something calming about the predictable rhythm of it all. The repetitive cycle of needs and care, while limiting, provided a strange sense of security. Each cry was met with a comforting response, and each pang of hunger was eased by the soft embrace of nourishment, making the chaos of infancy feel oddly structured.
Speaking of my mom, she seemed quite young to have a child. Maybe—and I stress maybe—she was only about 20 years old. This uncertainty lingered in my mind, adding to the curiosity I felt about her story. She was tall, around 5 feet 10 inches, with long, straight brunette hair. I didn’t know what she did for work, but she was always home. Maybe her maternity leave policies were more accommodating than those in most U.S. jobs, which could explain why she was always home.
My dad, on the other hand, seemed perpetually busy. He wasn’t home much during the day, but every morning, he would greet me with a warm smile, and every night, even if I was asleep, he’d tuck me in and whisper goodnight. Towering at about 6 feet 6 inches, he was impressively well-built and appeared to be in his early twenties—a stark contrast to my mom’s youthful charm, as his age seemed entirely natural and fitting.
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With so much time spent asleep, my only work was trying to talk and move to build muscle. The long hours of rest felt like a haze, making the rare moments of consciousness all the more precious. Each attempt to move or speak carried a sense of urgency, as if breaking through the fog would reveal more about the world I yearned to understand. I hoped that by learning to talk or walk, I’d finally bridge the gap between myself and the reality around me.
At a year and a half, I could finally stay awake long enough to make a list of goals. Why not earlier, you ask? Well, I tried. But every time I fell asleep, I’d forget. Recently, I noticed I could keep memories longer, perhaps because I was sleeping less deeply, or my mind was starting to mature. This shift felt significant, like a door to greater understanding had been unlocked. So, without further ado, here’s my to-do list:
1.) Learn to meditate – I’m hoping this will help me pass the time while also helping me try to sense mana or whatever it’s called here.
2.) Try to develop a sixth sense-type ability to see all around me – I know it sounds dumb, but hey, there’s magic, so maybe.
3.) Learn to speak more than just saying "Mama" or "Dada" – My hope is that once I learn to speak more, I can start asking about magic and learning to read.
Not a huge list, but I’m only 18 months old, so give me a break.
Every day after that, I made sure to meditate at night. Sometimes, on days when I did something particularly challenging—such as walking in a straight line or, with the amazing dexterity of my 18-month-old body, picking up multiple small items—I would recreate the scene in my mind to the best of my ability and try to relive those moments. I focused on reliving the steps I took and how everything felt, to ensure that the next time I tried it, I could do it more effectively.
The other thing I started doing every day was closing my eyes and trying to walk around the room. This did not go nearly as well as the meditation. I blamed my baby brain for not being able to think of better methods to help myself develop a sixth sense. More often than not, I found my body doing things I hadn’t instructed it to do—like peeing or pooping myself, or randomly giggling at something. It made me once again call nonsense on the isekai books where a 2-year-old is speaking fluently and able to fend off a full-grown adult.
It took me another six months before I could speak clearly enough to finally ask my mom about magic. While I knew the word "magic" in English, I had yet to learn it in my new world. It wasn’t until I was looking at one of the baby books that my mother had given me that I finally learned the word for it.
“Mama!” I yelled as I ran across the room.
“Yes, Jace?” she replied, as calm as always. I swear the woman must be a saint with how calm she always is. In the two years since I was born, I’ve run into the walls of my room several times, and she would just look at me and say I shouldn’t have been running. Now, it’s not that she doesn’t care, mind you—she just wasn’t worried.
“Mama, I want magic, please?” I asked, my eyes wide, showing the innocence that only a child can display.
“Magic? We don’t have magic, baby.”