When I woke up, I expected to find myself in a hospital or back in my studio. Instead, I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar place. The surroundings looked like something out of a rural countryside—small houses, farm-like structures. Where am I?

Did someone rescue me while I was unconscious and bring me here? No... that doesn’t seem right. No.

Then I suddenly remembered—those floating words. The last thing I saw while blacking out. "Welcome to the new world?" Yes, that was it... or was it? No, that’s impossible. But the thought of it, combined with the memory of what might have been my death, sent me spiraling into worry.

My work! The exhibit is the day after tomorrow, and I haven’t submitted my final piece. The panic gave me enough strength to force myself to move. I struggled to sit up on what seemed like a bed, though everything was still blurry. My body felt heavy and unresponsive, but I had to push through.

“Wahh!”

I froze. That startled me—a baby’s cry?

Curiosity swelled, and I tried to call out, but the words wouldn’t form. My body refused to cooperate. I could barely move, let alone speak. And when I did try to say something, what came out was—

“Coo!”

What? No, no, no.

“Waaa!”

I shouted again, or rather... a baby’s wail came from me. My breath caught as realization set in.

This sound… this cry... is it coming from me?!

It didn’t take long for me to figure it out.

A man rushed over, looked down at me, and—without so much as a word—plopped a pacifier into my mouth. A tiny pacifier. That’s when I noticed the size of my hands, or rather, my tiny hands. My arms were ridiculously small. And then there was the crib.

There was no denying it—I had become a baby.

Before I could fully process the absurdity, the man scooped me up, one hand under my ridiculously small body, and hoisted me onto his shoulder. He rocked me back and forth, humming some soothing lullaby trying to make me sleep.

“There you go, sleep,” he murmured.

Sleep? Did he seriously think I could “sleep” through this?

I squinted at him, trying to get a clear look, but my vision was still frustratingly fuzzy. He seemed young, mid-thirties maybe. Then another voice cut in—a woman’s—breathless and hurried as she ran toward us.

“Phew! Thanks for handling that,” she said, tapping his arm in appreciation.

She looked young too. Casual familiarity passed between them—especially when they kissed. Right after that, they kissed me.

Great. Just great. From that brief exchange, it was pretty obvious. Husband and wife.

And me? I’m their child.

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After half a year.

As impossible as it sounds, I’ve come to terms with it: I’ve been reincarnated into another world. How did I die? Most likely from overworking myself to the point of collapse—classic. I thought my body could handle endless sleepless nights and skipped meals, but no, I was slowly torturing myself in the name of passion. Brilliant, right?

Now here I am, starting over as a baby. My new parents are in their mid-thirties, and they work as farmers, managing a small plot of land together. Half of their harvest goes to something called the "Community Storage," a kind of communal stockpile for emergencies—long winters, lockdowns, disasters, you name it. Apparently, everyone with land is required to contribute, while those without land work on farms for free in exchange for a share of the stored crops. Not exactly fair, but it’s the system here.

We live in a remote town far from the capital, under the rule of someone my parents called the “Landowner.” The town itself isn’t drastically different from rural areas back on Earth. The houses and tools have an antique vibe, and while they use utensils similar to ours, there’s none of the modern conveniences—no refrigerators, no rice cookers, no toasters. The list of “missing” items goes on.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Oh, and I have an older sister. She’s seven, and, to my surprise, she’s remarkably mature for her age. Honestly, I thought she’d be annoying—especially since I’m technically a man in my mid-twenties trapped in this tiny body—but she’s quiet and well-behaved. Still, she’s eager to play the doting older sister, always trying to make her “baby brother” or me laugh, just like my parents do.

I have to admit, the guilt eats at me sometimes. They have no idea I’m actually an adult. Their affection, their care—it’s all genuine and pure, which makes it even harder to deal with. But over time, I’ve started to accept it. This is normal for them. This is their world, their child, and for now... I guess I’ll be fine.

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A year passed in the blink of an eye.

Let me tell you, being a baby isn’t exactly thrilling. Not that I ever expected it to be. The routine is monotonous: milk, a bit of fresh air, some playtime, a nap, and repeat. Over and over again. It’s not like I’m complaining—I’m no stranger to repetitive routines. Back in my old life, I spent countless hours doing the same brushstrokes and techniques to perfect my paintings. But this? This is on a whole new level of monotony.

Still, it’s not entirely boring either. It’s strange—I feel a little unhinged, honestly. My previous life was consumed by my art. That was my rhythm, my purpose. Now, I’m left without a canvas, no brushes, nothing to pour my soul into.

And yet… there’s something oddly exciting about this new life. Not because I’m a baby, trust me, there’s nothing glamorous about diapers, but because, for the first time, I have something I never really had before: a complete family.

Turns out, having more than one individual who care about you, who really care, feels kind of... amazing.

They seemed genuinely shocked the first time they saw me crawl, then stand with support, and eventually stand on my own. Now I could walk—well, sort of. I still held onto furniture for balance, but progress was progress. Slowly but surely, I was mastering the art of being a productive baby.

"Take it easy, Vonn," my father, Victor, said, encouraging me to walk outside.

Vonn. That’s my name. I hadn’t figured out our surname, if there's any, but knowing my first name was enough. It gave me a small sense of identity in this new life.

“He’s a quick learner, isn’t he?” my mother, Eleanor, remarked.

I learned their names from our neighbor, who often stopped by to help with the crops and addressed them directly. My sister’s name, Clarisse, I picked up from my parents, who called her name frequently.

My father nodded in agreement. “He really is. Look at him—he’s so excited,” he said, grinning.

I had to admit, being fully conscious while stuck in a baby’s body was a unique experience. It gave me an odd sense of freedom—a chance to be careless without consequence. After all, what’s expected of a baby? Just to exist.

“Maybe we can take him to see the capital sometime,” my mother suggested, her voice light with curiosity.

My father chuckled, glancing at me. “Isn’t he a bit too young for that?”

To show I was listening—and, of course, to express my enthusiasm—I bounced excitedly in place. Not too much, though. I couldn’t afford to look overly eager; that might blow my cover. But the idea of exploring a new environment? That was a thrill I couldn’t ignore. My mind raced. Say yes. Let me tag along. Please.

“Maybe in a few more years,” my father added with a laugh, grabbing my tiny frame and hoisting me onto his shoulders.

Well, that was a no. Unlucky me. Looks like I’ll have to wait a few more years before getting a glimpse of the capital.

We stepped outside, me still riding on my father’s shoulders, while my mother walked beside us.

“We’ve had a great harvest this year,” my father said, pausing to admire our small but thriving crops.

“Hmm, what should we give Vonn for his birthday?” my mother mused aloud, her tone thoughtful.

I’d almost forgotten—they celebrate birthdays here too. Of course they do. But the calendar in this world is different. No January, February, or anything I’d recognize. Instead, they have their own month names, which seem loosely inspired by Earth’s calendar: Jorlen, Febralis, Marten, Avrell, Maelis, Junen, Jorren, Augren, Sethel, Octen, Noveris, and Devrin. Each month has exactly 30 days, making a total of 360 days in a year.

Then there’s the odd part: an extra five days, completely outside the calendar. These aren’t assigned to any month and are celebrated as a special event called The Days of Renewal. It’s similar to New Year’s back on Earth, except the festivities last for five straight days before the new year officially begins.

I learned all of this from my sister’s book. Well, technically, from glancing at it while she was reading. She didn’t even notice my little baby self absorbing all that information.

As for my birthday, I found out it falls in the month of Sethel—specifically, the 13th day of Sethel, Year 984. Apparently, Sethel is the month of harvest, which feels oddly fitting.

“What do you want, son?” my father asked, craning his neck slightly as if I could answer him.

What do I want? Oh, how I wanted to shout, A brush! Some paints! Something—anything—to get back to painting! But of course, I couldn’t say that. I could barely form words, let alone express such a specific desire.

I stayed quiet, unsure how to respond. I wasn’t used to this—parents asking me what I wanted. The idea alone gave me goosebumps. They wanted to make me happy. Me, of all people. It was… unsettling, in the best way possible.

I was just as surprised as my parents when I let out my first word. “Pa—”

BOOM!

Before I could finish, a deafening explosion shook the entire area. Even our neighbors stopped in their tracks, startled. My mother runs toward our house—the source of the explosion—while my father quickly lowered me from his shoulders, cradling me in his arms as we hurried inside.

When we entered inside, we saw a section of the ceiling was blown apart, debris scattered across the floor. Standing at the center of it all was my older sister, Clarisse, her face pale and her hands trembling. She looked guilty enough to be the culprit.

“What happened?!” my mother cried out, rushing to her side.

Clarisse stammered, her voice shaky but steady enough to get the words out. “I… I tried to manifest a spell, but I didn’t know it would—” She stopped, clearly shaken but not crying. “I’m sorry, Father, Mother,” she said, bowing her head toward us.

Manifest a spell? What was she talking about? A spell, as in magic? Wasn’t that just from one of the books she’d been reading? I’d noticed her with a copy of a book entitled "Spells 101" and had assumed it was some kind of fantasy fiction. But now…

“What did you do?” my father asked, pointing at the hole in the ceiling, which, miraculously, hadn’t taken the whole house with it.

“I—I manifested magic, Father,” she admitted, bowing her head again.

My father gently set me down and walked toward her, my mother close behind. I expected them to scold her—after all, she’d just blown a hole in our house. But what happened next left me completely dumbfounded.

Instead of reprimanding her, my father lifted her into the air, a wide grin spreading across his face. My mother, meanwhile, was nearly jumping with excitement.

“You really did it?!” my father exclaimed, holding Clarisse a little higher.

“You manifested magic with your own hands?” he added, his voice full of pride.

Magic? Were they serious? Magic exists in this world? I stared, trying to make sense of it all.

“Clarisse! Are you serious?” my mother asked, practically glowing.

“Y-yes, Mother,” Clarisse replied, a hesitant but growing smile forming on her face. “But… why are you so happy about this?”

My mother beamed. “It means you have the aptitude for magic! You can go to the academy!”

That settled it—magic was real, and not just real but celebrated.

Before I could process any further, my parents ran outside to share the news with the neighbors. My sister, only eight years old, had managed to manifest magic.

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A week later, I’d pieced together the full picture. Magic wasn’t just real; it was a big deal. Anyone who could manifest magic, even something as basic as what Clarisse had done, could be admitted to the academy, where they’d train to become fully equipped mages.

Clarisse, it turned out, was the first in our entire town to manifest magic at such a young age. The community was full with excitement. As for me? I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities.

What if I had the aptitude for magic like her? The thought of it drove me wild with anticipation. I couldn’t help myself. For the first time in this new life, I felt truly excited about what was to come.