"Epigraph! They are called epigraphs. I knew I knew the word and it was irking me that I could not remember it. To summarize, those 'top of the chapter’ things are called epigraphs."

~Unknown

Time Until Core Skill Selection

24:09:33:42

It had been almost 40 days since I first called up a System interface straight out of fantasy fiction. Real talk, the past few weeks were not my proudest. It's one thing to tell yourself not to think about painful things, but if it were that easy, therapists wouldn't be charging absurd hourly rates. The worst part? It was getting easier to cope. I was able to compartmentalize. Objectively, I knew it was a good thing, a sign of healing. Scarred, mangled healing but healing all the same. It didn't mean that the waves of guilt I felt were any less debilitating. I'd convinced myself that being less paralyzed by grief meant I was betraying the life I once had and the people I left behind.

Fortunately, being gripped by the occasional need to cry myself to sleep was standard baby behavior so hopefully I hadn't roused any undue suspicion. I was starting to piece together the language since my excursions outside the crib were growing longer and more frequent. It was an issue of exposure to vocabulary. The additional opportunities to watch my parents interact with each other beyond the baby-talk they used on me did wonders for my growing comprehension.

I wasn't bilingual in my first life. Learning a second language always felt like an impossible barrier to me. I collected an eclectic sample of words and phrases but that was the limit of my casual capabilities. This time, though, it wasn't that I wanted to learn a new language. I needed to. Even with such potent motivation I had my doubts. Fortunately, the benefits of my baby brain started to reveal themselves.

One of my fiancée’s friends had a toddler and would gab about the wisdom from her mountain of overpriced baby books. Apparently, humans have the highest capacity for learning in their early years of life. Our young brains are like little sponges, a perk I was now benefiting from despite my unique circumstances.

I still hadn't tried articulating any words and I planned to keep it that way. According to ‘the literature’, something-teen months was the average age that babies started speaking. I wasn't really paying attention when I heard about it, but I got the gist. Until my parents started staring me down and endlessly repeating their language's equivalent of 'mama' or 'dada' at me I was content to lay low.

At no point did I want to intentionally risk outing myself as a reincarnated, adult man. I couldn’t imagine that conversation ending in anything other than disaster.

"So, turns out you’ve been babying a grown ass man in his 30s and treating him like the son I probably inadvertently stole from you."

Yeah... No. Not going to happen.

I knew that relationships built on a foundation of dishonesty weren’t known for their stability, but unfiltered honesty was also problematic. I’d reevaluate when I was less dependent on my parents for survival, but I wanted to do right by them. If that meant keeping my origins a secret, so be it. If I later decided that it meant revealing myself and being chased out of their lives… Well, so be it.

***

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By that point my regular descents into the newborn fugue had started tapering off. Finally, I had the time and mental resources to start noticing more about the world around me. This mostly meant that I was able to start recognizing what my parents looked like beyond being vaguely humanoid blobs. I failed to consider that I still had a baby body, however, and one detail stood out above the rest.

They were massive! Rationally, I knew they just seemed massive compared to me, but still. It's easy to forget how large the world looks when you're young. Memories of memories contrast with our adult perspectives and dull the awe of being surrounded by giants.

I confirmed my parents were human which wasn't particularly helpful in narrowing down the specifics of where or when I was. At that point I decided I would try to let the matter rest until I could get some concrete answers beyond blind speculation. The specifics paled in comparison to the harsh fact that I was displaced from the home I knew. Obsessing over fragments of inconclusive evidence would only make me feel stressed.

… more stressed.

My father's name eluded me. I'd only heard him referred to as 'love' or some rough equivalent. With the limited contextual exposure to the language I had, it was one of the few words I'd been able to confidently decipher.

There was a solidity to the man. Not the chiseled physique of someone with a workout regime, but the practical build of someone who developed muscle after years of labor. His hands felt rough, like they were calloused, but he was always gentle with me as if worried he’d accidentally break me. I felt a kinship to the man. I too was awkward when handling small children. I only grew further endeared when I observed him interacting with my mother. It was the lingering looks and spontaneous smiles they inspired in one another. Sometimes the love people share is just so obvious.

It reminded me of my fiancée and I in ways that were far too bittersweet.

Hazelnut eyes framed by an olive complexion regarded me softly whenever my father gingerly held me up for inspection. It struck me that his face was always cleanly shaved. Either he couldn't grow any facial hair or went through the trouble to remove it daily. His hair colour reminded me of dark chocolate and the dense strands never strayed below his shoulders. Small twigs or leaves were regularly tangled in its clutches. It would explain why such woodsy odors clung to him most of the time. I began to suspect we lived near a forest.

I'd only heard my mother's name once at that point. It was an argument of sorts that pushed my father to use it instead of their usual terms of endearment. I couldn’t understand what they were disagreeing about in any meaningful detail, but I recognized irritation when I heard it. My mother's eyes are that fickle shade of green that changes depending on the lighting, her mood, or just because. When my father used her name, they briefly flickered to a shade I have since cataloged as 'danger-green'. I had no way of knowing what ignited their argument, but it was probably one of the many stressors that a newborn can place on a relationship. Regardless, it's how I learned my mother’s name.

Tina.

Not Tina exactly. There was nuance to the pronunciation when filtered through their language but it's the closest approximation I can convey.

Names and titles are funny little things. I was still struggling to define the relationship I wanted with my new parents. I had to ask myself if I was willing to accept them as my mother and father, and not just publicly. I’d call them mom and dad as a survival tactic if I had to, even though I wouldn’t be proud of it. I wanted to know if I could accept them as family, truly and honestly. I tried not to revisit my worries about them accepting me if they found out who I really was. That was a separate concern, or so I told myself.

The issue gnawed at me and poked at still raw wounds. I still had parents in my old life and was worried I'd be betraying them by accepting new ones. My dad and I were especially close. He was a goofball who claimed Billy Joel was his favorite musician yet still regularly flubbed the lyrics when singing along and I loved him for it. As I grew older, I beamed with pride whenever a family friend said I reminded them of him.

You can imagine my surprise when, as a teenager, I found out he was technically my stepfather. After the initial shock, I decided I didn't care. My dad was my dad, plain and simple, genetics be damned.

That experience is what decided it for me, I think. It's what gave me the strength to believe that no matter what, my first parents would always be just that. Families can be complex and don't have to fit into any neat little boxes.

I had a new father, but it didn't mean I was losing my old one.

I had a new mother, but it didn't mean I was losing my old one.

… and I had a new name. I didn't usually make a habit of referring to myself in the third person, so it had been a while since I considered my old name. Even now, I think I'll keep it to myself as a secret treasure, something for the people waiting for me somewhere beyond distance. You get the new name.

My name is Will.