“Dead… dead… dead…”

  The boy’s voice broke as he thrashed in his sleep.

  “No—!”

  He shot upright.

  Air rushed into his lungs as if he had been drowning. His chest burned. His heart slammed wildly against his ribs. Sweat clung to his small frame, soaking through his nightclothes.

  For a long moment, he could only breathe.

  Twelve years.

  He had lived in this world for twelve years.

  And yet the images flooding his mind belonged to someone else.

  Rain-soaked streets.

  Neon bleeding into darkness.

  The feeling of standing at the edge of something final.

  “…What was that?” he whispered.

  His youthful face — soft features, a small nose, skin untouched by hardship — twisted with disbelief. His dark brown eyes trembled as tears welled up.

  When the faint morning light brushed across them, a subtle shimmer of pale green flickered deep within.

  A remnant.

  Not of magic.

  Of memory.

  “That… wasn’t my life,” he murmured, gripping the sheets.

  But his heart disagreed.

  The emotions were too real.

  The pain too sharp.

  The regret too heavy.

  Those weren’t things a dream could carry.

  His vision blurred. Tears spilled freely, and he wiped them away with his sleeve, breathing unevenly as he tried to steady himself.

  Calm down.

  He slid off the bed, sandals tapping softly against the cold floor. Each step toward the mirror felt uncertain, as if the ground itself might deny him.

  He stopped.

  A child stared back at him from the mirror.

  Unscarred hands.

  A living body.

  A future that had not yet closed its doors.

  He lifted his hands slowly, turning them over as if they might deny him at any moment.

  “These are… mine,” he whispered.

  The words didn’t reassure him.

  A sharp pain pulsed behind his eyes, and the world tilted. Memories surged—rain, concrete, the feeling of standing somewhere he should never have reached. Two lives pressed together, overlapping, neither willing to give way.

  He clenched his teeth and grabbed the edge of the mirror, knuckles whitening as he fought to stay upright.

  “…Even if that was real,” he said quietly, the words dragged out of him,

  “I’ll treat it as a dream.”

  He forced himself to breathe.

  In.

  Out.

  The pain receded, leaving behind something heavier—something that refused to fade with the ache.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  It wasn’t fear.

  It wasn’t sorrow.

  It was the weight of knowing.

  He looked into his own eyes—eyes that had seen death once, even if this body had not. For the first time, he didn’t turn away from them.

  If that ending had truly been his…

  Then this beginning wasn’t meaningless.

  His hands loosened their grip.

  “I swear,” he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his chest,

  “I won’t let this life go to waste.”

  The faint green light pulsed softly, as if acknowledging a vow that reached beyond this world.

  The door creaked open.

  “—Son?”

  His mother stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, her breathing slightly uneven as if she had rushed there. Concern filled her posture before she even spoke.

  “I heard you shouting,” she said gently. “Are you alright?”

  Her warm brown eyes searched his face. In the soft morning light, a faint golden reflection shimmered within them — subtle, almost imperceptible, like sunlight through leaves.

  Her long dark hair was tied into a loose braid, stray strands framing her tired face.

  Then she saw his tears.

  Her expression softened instantly.

  “…Did you have a bad dream?”

  She crossed the room and knelt before him, her hands warm as they brushed his cheeks. Her thumb wiped away tears he hadn’t realized were still falling.

  He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face against her shoulder. His fingers clenched into her clothes, holding on as if letting go might make everything disappear again.

  “Yes, Mom,” he whispered.

  “A really bad one.”

  She didn’t press him.

  Instead, she held him — one hand resting at the back of his head, fingers moving slowly and steadily.

  “It’s alright,” she murmured.

  “You’re here. You’re safe.”

  His breathing gradually slowed.

  After a moment, she pulled back, offering a small, tired smile.

  “Go wash your face,” she said softly.

  “Your father will be back soon.”

  She stood and smoothed his hair once more.

  “Breakfast is ready.”

  The words were simple.

  Ordinary.

  And yet, they grounded him more than anything else could.

  He washed his face.

  The reflection staring back at him looked calmer now — eyes still red, but steady.

  He returned to the dining room.

  A wooden table sat at the center of the room, worn smooth by years of use. Breakfast had already been laid out, its familiar scent filling the air.

  Then—

  The front door opened.

  He stepped inside.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, his posture loose and unhurried. Short dark hair carried faint streaks of gray, and rough stubble lined his jaw. A thin scar ran across one cheek, neither hidden nor emphasized.

  “Good morning, Father,” the boy said.

  His father’s expression softened.

  “Good morning, son.”

  His eyes were calm and steady, sharp without being intense.

  His right arm was gone.

  A dark shawl was secured over his shoulder, the fabric folded and pinned to cover the empty space where the arm ended. It shifted slightly as he walked, light and unmistakably hollow beneath.

  He took his seat without pause, his movements practiced and natural, as if nothing about his body required explanation.

  I remembered asking Mom once.

  Mom… why does Father have only one arm?

  He lost it while protecting someone.

  She hadn’t looked at me when she said it.

  And don’t ask your father about it, alright?

  The words came back without her voice attached to them—flat and distant.

  He wasn’t sure anymore if that was exactly how she’d said it…

  or if it was just how he remembered it.

  Mother poured Father a drink.

  The room filled with small, ordinary sounds—dishes, quiet voices, the comfort of routine.

  And yet, everything felt sharper.

  Clearer.

  Like he was finally awake.

  “Father,” he said suddenly.

  Both of them looked at him.

  “I want to learn magic.”

  Silence fell.

  Not an awkward one.

  A complete one.

  His mother froze mid-motion. His father paused, studying him carefully — not with anger, but with surprise.

  “Oh?” he said at last. “Really?”

  The boy nodded.

  “You always said you weren’t interested,” his father continued. “You avoided the subject every time.”

  He glanced at his wife.

  “Your mother’s been hoping you’d change your mind for years.”

  She smiled faintly — hopeful, a little embarrassed.

  His father returned his gaze to the boy.

  “Well,” he said with a small chuckle,

  “I suppose this is good news for her.”

  The boy lowered his eyes to the table.

  Inside his chest, something tightened.

  This time… I won’t turn away.

  This wasn’t curiosity.

  This wasn’t a whim.

  This was resolve — born from a life that had already ended once.