I had already been sitting on the roof for over two hours, legs dangling lazily over the edge, watching distant souls trudge their way toward whatever final destination awaited them. They walked in gentle lines, like pilgrims with invisible lanterns, their paths lit and their fates certain. I envied them. Every single one of them had a destination, a clear goal. A purpose. Meanwhile, I was just… here. Stuck in limbo with a smug god and a growing list of metaphysical side effects.

  Unsurprisingly, my mood wasn’t the best. Not dreadful enough to break down, but somewhere between “brooding loner on a rooftop” and “one tile away from property damage.”

  I had officially decided to avoid today’s spear session. My focus kept drifting anyway—always back to the other world. That far-off planet I had been reborn into, the one that always seemed just out of reach. Supposedly, I had a chance there. Supposedly. Whatever the god was doing to me was still wrapped in divine red tape and layers of frustrating mystery.

  He, of course, was in a good mood today.

  Which made everything worse.

  “Hey, do you want a gift?” he asked from somewhere below, like a child trying to bait a cat with yarn.

  I blinked. That was… unexpected. He’d never offered me anything voluntarily before, and certainly not something I might actually want.

  “Why now?” I asked, suspicion fully engaged.

  He didn’t answer—just stood there grinning like a fool.

  So I picked up a loose roof tile and lobbed it at him.

  I missed. On purpose. Mostly.

  Still, he raised his hands in surrender as I reached for a second.

  “I’m in a good mood today!” he said quickly. “Besides, this is the last time you’ll want to get reborn. Isn’t that nice?”

  My eyebrow twitched. Last time I’ll want to be reborn? What did that even mean? Either I’d finally survive for longer than twenty minutes, or someone would help me. Which meant… someone had to help me.

  I squinted. There was definitely something going on here, something I hadn’t pieced together yet. I needed more information, but so far, the only available source was the grinning god below me, who was about as trustworthy as a locked door in a burning building.

  “Fine,” I said, lounging back on my elbows. “What’s this incredible, generous gift?”

  “The language of the humans!” he declared triumphantly, as if he had just invented fire.

  My jaw actually dropped. Not metaphorically. I sat up straight. “Wait… seriously?”

  Because if he meant what I thought he meant, then the entire language barrier that had tripped me up so many times on Solaris was about to be obliterated. That single gift could change everything.

  Then a question popped into my head. One that made everything unravel just a little.

  “What language am I speaking right now?”

  He blinked. The question caught him off guard, which was always satisfying to see.

  “The language of your original race,” he finally replied, recovering with a shrug and that infuriatingly knowing smile.

  I frowned. That actually made a weird amount of sense. If the “humans” on Solaris weren’t exactly the same as the humans from my spaceship—my own species—then of course I’d ended up with the wrong default settings. Interstellar identity crisis, anyone?

  But that didn’t mean I trusted him.

  “What’s the catch?”

  “Oh, just a few minor things,” he said too casually. “It’s a one-way translator—so you’ll understand them, but they won’t understand you. Also, if you try to rely on it too obviously—like writing or miming to get around it—it cuts out. And it turns off after your next death. But hey! That won’t be an issue if you don’t die.”

  I picked up another tile. Just to hold it this time. For emotional support.

  So, the "gift" wasn’t about helping me communicate. It was about helping me observe. Hear what they say. Understand my surroundings. Be the silent protagonist in someone else’s story. Clever. Manipulative, even. And of course, the gift could easily become a crutch. If I leaned on it too much, I’d never learn the actual language, and then I’d be back to square one after my next gruesome demise.

  Still. The temptation was real.

  “Alright,” I said, sighing. “But don’t think for a second that I’m grateful.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said cheerfully, not even pretending to be offended.

  “Firstly, if I’d rejected it, you’d have just used it as leverage to make me promise to ‘listen to your grand reasoning’ anyway. Secondly, this isn’t a gift. You want me to have it—for whatever nefarious, cosmic plot you’ve got brewing.”

  He shrugged again, the very picture of divine nonchalance, and left me alone with my thoughts.

  The air between us quieted after that. Neither of us said anything else—not when I hopped off the roof, not when the ground started to shimmer again, and not when I felt that familiar tug as my soul was lifted skyward. Maybe we both knew there wasn’t much more to say.

  I was reborn soon after, and this time, there was no melodramatic farewell, no smug speech or parting remark. Just silence.

  And that was fine by me.

  Because this time—maybe for the first time—I felt something a little like hope. Not the fragile, delusional kind that used to get crushed by wolves and poisoned stones, but something sturdier. I had a tool now. A real advantage. I might not survive forever, but I could last longer.

  He was smiling like he’d won.

  But me? I smiled too.

  Because the game wasn’t over.

  Not even close.

  When I opened my eyes, the world was no longer the dull, heavy purgatory I had grown accustomed to. Instead, it was bathed in a brilliance that stunned every sense. Light — warm, alive, and painfully intense — poured in from unseen sources, flooding every corner of the space around me. The shadows danced like phantoms, fleeting and gentle, as if they too had been reborn.

  In the distance, I caught glimpses of humanoid figures — silhouettes laughing freely, their movements graceful and easy. Their voices echoed like bells, lighthearted and full of warmth, weaving in and out of the metallic rhythm that rang from somewhere nearby. It was a curious sound, that metal-on-metal clatter, sharp and jarring, like the heartbeat of some vast machine pulsing through the veins of this underground world.

  Still, laughter followed each clash, rising like a counter-melody — joyful, resilient. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt the unmistakable presence of life. Not just survival, not just struggle — but civilisation. Community. Humanity.

  And, impossibly… I understood fragments of their speech.

  Only fragments — bits that managed to float through the laughter and echo toward me — but they were enough. Enough to confirm that I wasn’t alone anymore. That the barrier that had separated me from others might finally be crumbling. A language I shouldn’t know, now gently unfolding in my mind, like sunlight breaking through a storm.

  Despite the warmth around me, I was not without my share of strange discomforts. Something wasn’t quite right — with me. Compared to the last time I woke up after death, I felt stronger, sturdier, even capable. I pushed myself out of a rough, patchwork sleeping bag without too much struggle. That alone should’ve alarmed me, but I was too distracted by another problem.

  I couldn’t see.

  Not properly, anyway.

  Where purgatory had been pitch-black and full of unseen horrors, this place was… too bright. Aggressively so. Even with my hands pressed tightly over my eyes, shielding them from the glow, everything was blurry. Dazzling. I stumbled forward like a blind man, the sharp outlines of the world around me swallowed by white haze. My heart thudded with growing unease. Had something gone wrong with my eyes? Or was this another trick?

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Still, laughter beckoned me like a lighthouse, and I couldn’t help but move toward it.

  I hadn’t gotten far before someone took hold of my arm. The grip was firm, but not cruel. Before I could react — not that I had the strength to — the person gently pulled my arm over their waist and began to guide me elsewhere. I leaned into them, more than I wanted to admit. My legs wobbled with weakness, my vision remained a mess, but their presence steadied me.

  We moved slowly, leaving the brightness behind for a corridor wrapped in darkness. A soft chill welcomed us, a stark contrast to the overwhelming light. Gradually, my eyes began to adjust, and the world took shape.

  Stone walls — ancient and rough — closed in around us. The floor beneath my feet was hard and uneven, yet strangely comforting. Crystals, embedded like stars in the ceiling, pulsed gently with light, casting glows of blue and violet.

  Then I saw her.

  The person who had supported me now stood before me fully visible in the ambient light. She was taller than me, with earthy brown hair that fell in waves around her face. Light freckles dotted her cheeks, and her green eyes were sharp and guarded, like twin forest glades that had seen too many storms. Her skin was fair, and though her posture was tense, there was no cruelty in her expression.

  She was the first real person I had seen since this nightmare began. And without thinking — without a shred of restraint — I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her.

  She smelled of moss and pine and fresh rain. Forest. My breath caught in my throat. This — this was the nature I had longed for, the life I had missed so deeply. I closed my eyes and held on tighter, drinking in that impossible scent, letting it anchor me.

  Then I felt it.

  The unmistakable touch of cold steel at my throat.

  I froze.

  I opened my eyes slowly, lifting my gaze to meet hers.

  She looked afraid — but not panicked. Her lips were slightly parted, her expression caught between tension and calculation. She wasn’t acting out of blind aggression. She was protecting herself.

  Slowly, I loosened my embrace. Her hand didn’t move at first, but then — in a sudden, fluid motion — she lowered the dagger and stepped back. The distance between us was now laced with caution, her posture still ready, her trust far from earned.

  I sighed heavily and sat down near the wall, deliberately slow, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. I clasped my hands together and rested them on my knees, leaning against the stone behind me. My shoulders slumped with exhaustion. There wasn’t much more I could offer to convince her of my harmlessness.

  And yet… I saw it. A flicker of doubt in her eyes. Not the kind that leads to fear, but the kind that makes room for curiosity.

  She leaned against the opposite wall, mirroring my posture — still tense, still watching me closely, but no longer ready to strike. A fragile silence stretched between us. It could have broken with a word — and so, after a minute of shared stillness, I finally gave it one.

  My voice came out rough, dry from disuse. But it was steady.

  “Thank you… for helping me.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Not yet.

  But she didn’t leave either.

  And that was a start.

  "Hi, I like pancakes, stargazing, sleeping as long as possible, and having a good meal," I announced with a grin that quickly turned bitter. “I don’t like my new father, standing up and doing boring tasks.”

  The girl stared blankly at me. Her expression was polite, vaguely confused — the kind you give someone who might be talking about something fascinating… or dangerously unhinged. But that wasn’t surprising.

  “I’m new to this world, so it’d be nice if you could show me around,” I continued, undeterred by her silence. “First of all, though... I need to get in contact with child protection services. Or the police. Or both. And since you don’t understand a single word I’m saying… yeah. This world sucks.”

  I sighed and flopped down against the cool stone wall, wrapping my arms around my knees. Despite the hopelessness of the situation, I kept talking. Maybe it was to fill the silence. Maybe to convince myself that I still existed.

  Her expression remained unchanged, but I could almost feel her trying to make sense of what I was saying — brow slightly furrowed, eyes steady, quietly studying me as if I were some strange bird that had fallen into her lap from another universe. Which, to be fair, wasn’t too far from the truth.

  Then, to my surprise, she moved.

  She pointed to herself, slowly, clearly, and opened her mouth.

  “Hannah,” she said.

  At first, I thought the translation magic had failed again — the name sounded oddly... raw. Untouched by the translator's strange filtering. But then I remembered: names don’t get translated. They just are.

  Names.

  My smile faltered.

  I was about to introduce myself too, but my brain stumbled. I froze.

  Wait… what was my name?

  My mind raced. I tried to grasp it — that familiar shape, that anchor to my identity — but it was like chasing a shadow in fog. Nothing surfaced. My name, my face, my family… the memories were there, just out of reach, like the details of a dream slipping away the moment you try to write them down.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed both palms to my head, trying to force something, anything out of the void where my identity had once lived. My mother’s face flashed before my eyes — kind and tired, maybe? But her voice, her scent, her laugh… nothing. My father? A vague sense of presence, but no image. No stories. No names. Not even mine.

  I felt something collapse inside me. A quiet panic crept up my spine.

  That damn god. It wasn’t just my soul he’d meddled with — it was my memories. My self. I’d walked all this way, made all these plans, still foolishly thinking I was “me.” That some core part of who I had been would survive. But how had I not noticed I couldn’t even name myself?

  Naive. Stupid.

  I wrapped my arms tighter around my legs, the weight of this realization settling like lead in my chest. I was just a puppet, and the strings were no longer even mine to pull.

  Tears gathered in my eyes before I could stop them, dripping silently onto the dusty stone floor.

  I was so close to giving up — to truly, finally giving up — when I remembered something he’d said, almost offhandedly. He was imprisoned. Trapped. That meant he couldn’t influence everything. Not here.

  He could twist my thoughts. But he couldn’t twist hers.

  I lifted my head. Slowly, shakily, I wiped my eyes on the hem of the worn, oversized dress I wore. Then I pointed to myself… and then, to her. I held her gaze, pleading silently. I hoped she would understand. That she could give me what I’d lost.

  And then — we waited.

  She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching me in that wide-eyed, thoughtful way. I fidgeted, tapping my foot, then picked up a small stone and tapped it against the wall to keep myself grounded. No response. I walked up and gently pinched her cheek in a playful attempt to provoke her — not my best idea. She immediately tightened her grip on the dagger at her waist. I backed off with hands raised and a sheepish grin, then sat back down beside her.

  Dangerous? Probably. But necessary. I needed her to see I wasn’t a threat — just lost. Maybe even worth saving.

  Finally, she spoke.

  “You are newly born, aren’t you? It’s a wonder you survived this long.”

  I blinked, surprised not just by the words — the translator had caught that one cleanly — but by the warmth in her voice. No mockery. Just awe… and maybe a little sympathy.

  Honestly, she was right. I was a miracle. A miserable, confused, pancake-loving miracle.

  She gave me a long, curious look, then seemed to reach a decision. She took a deep breath and knelt down so we were at eye level.

  “Alright,” she said softly, a smile forming, “I think I know a good name for you.”

  She paused, and her green eyes sparkled with something close to affection — or perhaps wonder.

  “May you shine as brightly as you do now — Lumus.

  May the fire in your eyes never burn out — Cinder.

  May you never fear the unknown — Dauntless.”

  She pointed to me, her smile widening.

  “Your name is… Lucinda.”

  And just like that, I existed again.

  Solaris had been... interesting. In ways I hadn’t expected.

  The very first person I met, a girl named Hannah, greeted me not with hostility — though there was some of that — but with something closer to cautious curiosity. Her name, I later realised, was a palindrome. A perfect mirror of itself, as though her identity was balanced on the edge of symmetry. There was something poetic about that, even if I didn’t understand it at first. She felt like a reflection — of what, I wasn’t quite sure yet.

  Then she gave me a name.

  She didn’t blurt it out or toss it at me like a title. No, she thought about it. Truly considered it. Measured it. Each syllable had weight, purpose — meaning. Lumus for light, Cinder for fire, Dauntless for courage. Lucinda. My name. A name that told a story before I’d even begun telling mine.

  I loved that name. I clung to it like a child might hold onto a warm blanket on a cold night. Maybe it was because I had nothing else. Maybe it was because it was the first thing in this world I was given, not stolen, not imposed — given, freely. Or maybe I loved it simply because she had named me.

  That single act had created a fragile thread between us — not quite trust, not quite friendship, but something close enough to make me smile. And I did smile, bright and carefree, unable to hide the joy bubbling in my chest.

  But then… I noticed something.

  As my grin spread, Hannah’s face didn’t quite mirror it. Something flickered behind her green eyes — a brief shadow of uncertainty or maybe even fear. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was there. Subtle, but sharp, like a crack in a mirror you don’t notice until the light hits it just right.

  She didn’t say anything directly. I couldn’t blame her. From her perspective, I was this bizarre, possibly unstable child from who-knows-where, who hadn’t responded to a single spoken word she’d offered. Not once. Not even a hint of recognition. And yet now… I smiled in exactly the right moment. With exactly the right emotion.

  I was sure she was putting the pieces together. And I knew I couldn’t let her. The god had made it clear: I wasn’t allowed to communicate through translation. I could understand, yes, but not show it. Never show it. The rules were a cruel trick — a leash with just enough slack to make me think I was free.

  And so, when she said my name — “Lucinda?” — her voice low and tentative, I tilted my head in silence, playing the part of the curious, clueless newcomer. I focused on her gestures instead. She raised a single finger to her lips, a universal sign. Then she pointed directly at me.

  I blinked. At first, I wasn’t sure what she meant. I hadn’t been loud. I hadn’t even spoken.

  Then I got it.

  I opened my mouth slightly and mimed closing it by gently pushing my jaw shut with one hand. A theatrical, exaggerated movement — part question, part playful confusion. I tilted my head again, trying to ask: Is that what you meant? without saying a word.

  Her reaction stunned me.

  Moments ago, that very same hand had hovered near the dagger at her waist. Now, it wrapped around me instead.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed, eyes lighting up with delight. And before I could even think of moving, she hugged me. Tight.

  Warmth rushed through me, a strange, unfamiliar sense of being wanted. Not just tolerated, but actually accepted, at least in this tiny moment. My heart squeezed painfully in my chest.

  I had finally found someone who cared, even if only a little. Someone who wasn’t a god or a ghost or a shape in the dark. Someone real.

  Still… part of me tensed.

  Why had she wanted me to be quiet in the first place? I hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t spoken to her — not really. Was it something about me? Did my presence unnerve her? Did I seem feral? Weird?

  ...Did my breath stink?

  I froze, suddenly self-conscious. I hadn’t brushed my teeth. When was the last time I brushed them? Did I even remember how to? My hand twitched toward my mouth before I caught myself.

  Maybe it wasn’t personal. Maybe she was just trying to teach me something simple, like being quiet is safe here. Maybe she thought I was just... a little off. Which, fair enough. I was off. Off-planet. Off-kilter. Off-everything.

  Still, even with the awkward tension bubbling under the surface, the hug lingered.

  And I let it.

  Because, whatever the reason, someone had embraced me — not out of obligation, not because of a command or a script, but because they wanted to.

  And that — for now — was enough.