Small hands. Short arms. Tiny legs that didn’t belong to any of my adult body.

  ...Oh, hell no.

  I staggered upright — wobbly, awkward, like some drunk toddler learning to walk. Except it was me. In a kid’s body. Reborn? Reincarnated? God, I hoped… not? But I couldn’t deny it. My limbs were stubby. My skin was smooth. And when I caught my reflection in the dull metal hanging near the door — yeah, that was definitely a child. Mess of black hair, stuck out in every cursed direction. Dirty too. The face was thin. Sharp around the chin. Little scratch over the brow. Dead-looking eyes. Forest-colored.

  Weird thing though? This kid's senses were extremely surprising. I could smell everything — the sharp smell of old wood, damp earth entering through the cracks, grass still wet from morning dew. I could hear the wind outside like it was whispering right in my ear — soft, constant, unnerving.

  This body was ridiculous. Creepy. But kinda awesome.

  But alright. No time to sit here marveling over my freakishly good nose. I needed some…answers.

  Walking was... an experience. My balance sucked. My legs felt wrong — too short, too light. Took me a hot minute to shuffle through the place without face-planting.

  The house — I could say, was a glorified wooden box. One straight line. Walk in? Tiny table right there. No chairs. Guess people here eat standing up or sitting down.

  Further in? A so-called bedroom. Straw mattress tossed on wooden planks. Bare bones. Past that was a kitchen — if "kitchen" means "room with a pot and not much else."

  But weirdly... I liked it. It felt real. Lived-in. Quiet in a way the city never was. And because I’m apparently an idiot with zero self-preservation instincts, I figured — hey — why not check outside?

  Worst case scenario? I'd become unconscious again.

  Best case? I figure out what kind of insane world I just woke up in.

  Either way, sitting around wasn’t my style.

  So I stepped outside.

  If you could even call it that. Felt more as if I’d stumbled into the middle of nowhere — dirt dry enough, grass hanging on for dear life. No neighbors. No roads. No fences. Just me and the wide-open nothing.

  Figures.

  I wandered for a bit, half-expecting the world to fall apart behind me. It didn’t. Instead, I found him.

  Randall.

  Old man looked exactly like I remembered from the dark — thick white beard, head balding and a clothing that looked washed up or old. But my — this kid’s — brain clocked him right away. Randall. The name just slid in. He didn’t see me at first. Too busy hauling this massive bucket — water sloshing around, leaving a wet breadcrumb trail behind him.

  Then he looked up. The bucket hit the ground with a dull thud.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  And just like that, he was moving — fast for an old man. Eyes wide, mouth halfway to a smile.

  “Gawn?” His voice cracked halfway through my name. He pulled a shaky breath. “H-How long you been awake?” His hand landed on my arm — rough as bark, calloused from years of doing whatever hard men like him did when no one was watching.

  This was the kid’s grandfather.

  Or mine. The feeling in my chest and memories said enough — old man raised this kid since he was a toddler.

  “Couple minutes,” I muttered.

  That wasn’t good enough for him. He circled me — checking my head, my shoulders, probably making sure I still had all my parts.

  “Oi, old man.” I swatted his hand away. “Quit lookin’ at me like I’m a ghost. I’m not dead.”

  Silence.

  Then he laughed.

  Hell, he laughed like he meant it. Big and raw and loud enough to scare the birds out of the trees.

  “Not dead, huh?” He barked it out, shaking his head. “That’s the first smart thing I’ve heard outta your mouth in days.”

  He crossed his arms — grinning now “Scared the piss outta me, boy,” he said, voice dropping just enough to let the weight slip through. “Thought I’d have to bury your sorry bones next to that crooked pine you hate.”

  His eyes softened — barely.

  “Glad you ain’t savin’ me the trouble.”

  The old man laughed again — loud and rough. Crazy bastard. That beard of his stuck in my head too. But yeah. This was him. The kid’s old man. My old man, I guess.

  Grandpa.

  Didn’t matter if my soul wasn’t from around here. The second I saw him, the second he grabbed me like he’d never let go — I felt it. It was muscle memory. Home probably.

  Weird feeling, for somebody who never really had one.

  I mean, hell — reincarnation? That’s what this is? Some cosmic do-over? Lucky me. Die once, wake up somewhere unknown.

  We headed back to the house eventually — my house, technically. Or maybe ours. That’s when I found out how I got wrecked in the first place — apparently fell out of a damn tree. From the top. No wonder the geezer looked like he’d seen a ghost when I strolled up breathing.

  Couldn’t exactly tell him the truth — Hey, I’m not your grandson, I just hijacked his body after dying horribly somewhere else — that's not gonna work.

  So I lied. He bought it.. Sorry, Gramps.

  “You break anything I can’t fix, boy?” he grunted while watching me.

  I stretched my neck, rolled my shoulder. Felt hell but bones intact. Somehow.

  “No,” I said. “Thanks to you, there wasn’t any.”

  “Hah. Don’t go thanking me yet.” he said scratching his beard and still glancing at me. “Stubborn weeds like you don’t break easy, but they sure love findin’ trouble.”

  I wasn’t sure why his voice felt so damn comforting. It wasn’t anything special—just a gruff, weathered tone. Before I could settle on that thought, he broke my focus again.

  “Come on. Up. Before you grow roots.”

  I huffed, but dragged myself up anyway. There was no point in complaining. We ended up outside, in front of the house now, where the old man handed me a steaming cup. Looked like water, tasted like… well, not water. It hit with this weird minty bitterness that almost made my throat shrivel.

  It wasn’t bad. Just… strange.. But the old man didn’t seem to care—he was already sipping his own.

  “Helps with nerves and muscles,” he said, as though it wasn’t the weirdest thing I’d ever tasted.

  “Yeah, okay,” I muttered, trying to hide my grimace. I took another sip, just to be polite.

  Then, his eyes shifted. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was staring at the sky, squinting at the dark shapes darting overhead.

  I followed his gaze, seeing the birds. They were everywhere, black streaks scattered through the sky in organized and precise movements. The noise started to move its way into my brain too. High-pitched, like someone near was scraping glass.

  I could hear them from inside, but now that we were outside, it was louder. “You hear 'em, huh?” the old man muttered, eyes narrowing, still watching the sky.

  I nodded.

  “Do you know where those birds are from?” he asked, voice low.

  I looked up again, trying to figure it out. “No, old man, I didn’t. But I can sure hear them. And I can see them clear enough.”

  He paused. His lips thinned, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Those are from the Merchants.”

  I frowned. The Merchants? I didn’t know jack about this world, but something about the way he said it made me slightly uncomfortable. Why? I don't have any idea.

  “Used birds for trading, didn’t they?” I muttered, mostly to myself.

  That earned me a quick, surprised look. He snapped his head toward me, eyes locking on mine with a focus I wasn’t used to. Then, slowly, he showed a smile.

  “How’d you know that, boy?” His voice was soft but had that edge. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in eventually. “That’s the first merchant bird to land here in years.”

  I didn’t say anything. Just gave a nervous little grin and scratched the back of my head. It felt right, though. Like the perfect response to the situation. The old man glanced at me, then turned back to the sky.

  “A dead man’s fortune if you catch one…” He trailed off, eyes narrowing. “But they’ll string you up for poaching Guild birds.”

  He said it like I was about to go out and try to catch one myself. Well, I probably be wrong about this, but this kid did have a habit of climbing trees. And getting into trouble. I could already see it—this kid had definitely given the old man more than his share of headaches.

  “Kid, you keep climbing trees like that, you’re gonna find yourself in a graveyard of your own making.”

  He was serious and he meant it. And for me, it actually sunk in.

  “I ain’t buryin' you, understand?” He turned toward me, his eyes steady, voice rough. “You get yourself in trouble, you get yourself out. But don’t expect me to patch your bones again. Reckless ain’t brave. It’s stupid. And stupid’ll get you killed.”

  Something in me wanted to say something back—make a joke or brush it off, but I couldn’t.

  I just nodded gently.