The darkness was gentle, like a weighted blanket draped over his soul. Liam’s final memory of his old life wasn’t pain or fear, but the sterile scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic beep…beep…beep of a heart monitor counting down his final moments. Nurses had rotated in and out of his hospice room all week—strangers whose names he’d memorized, who held his hand when the night terrors came. There’d been no family to call, no tearful goodbyes from loved ones. His parents were long gone, his only brother lost to a car accident years prior. Yet he hadn’t died alone. Mrs. Alvarez from the soup kitchen where he’d volunteered brought him fresh tamales the day before the end. Old Mr. Henderson, the blind veteran he’d read newspapers to every Sunday, left a voicemail rasping, “You’re a good kid, Liam. Real good.”
That was enough.
When the monitor flatlined, Liam felt no panic, only quiet gratitude. He’d filled his short 32 years with small acts of service—the overlooked kind that built invisible bridges between lonely souls. Now, as the void cradled him, he wondered if this was the peace people spoke of: no regrets, no unfinished business, just…rest.
But the Voice shattered the silence.
“Your compassion has rippled farther than you know.”
It wasn’t a sound so much as a vibration, honey-warm and resonant, filling the emptiness like sunlight through stained glass. Liam tried to speak, but his essence seemed to unravel, threads of memory flickering like fireflies—a homeless teen he’d mentored now running a shelter, a suicidal stranger he’d talked off a ledge years ago laughing at her daughter’s birthday party.
“You see? Even without blood ties, you wove yourself into the tapestry of countless lives. Such selflessness deserves reward.”
Before Liam could protest that he’d never wanted rewards, the Voice crescendoed: “A new world awaits—one of magic and mystery. Build the family you never had. Heal what you could not before.”
Light erupted, not blinding but beckoning, like dawn breaking over a mountain ridge. Sensations flooded him—the crispness of linen against newborn skin, the herbal tang of hearth smoke, a woman’s exhausted sob of joy.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“He’s here! Oh, Elric, look at him!”
Liam’s tiny lungs seized as he drew his first breath, the air sweet with lavender and roasted apples. Blurry shapes resolved above him: a woman with sweat-damp chestnut curls and moss-green eyes glowing with tears. Her calloused finger traced his cheek, her touch radiating a warmth he instinctively recognized—maternal love, pure and fierce.
“Ten fingers, ten toes,” rumbled a deeper voice. A giant of a man loomed into view, his sun-leathered face crinkling into a grin beneath a russet beard. When he lifted Liam effortlessly, the baby’s new body instinctively curled into the man’s barrel chest, soothed by the steady thump-thump of his heartbeat. “Strong grip, too! This one’s a fighter, Mara.”
“Hush, you’ll scare him,” chided a third voice, melodic and laced with laughter. A younger woman peered over the father’s shoulder, her silver-blonde braids brushing Liam’s forehead. Unlike Mara’s earthy warmth, this woman crackled with energy, amber eyes dancing with mischief. “Look at those cheeks! I’m stealing him first, Mara. Dibs on teaching him to climb trees!”
Mara snorted, though her smile softened the reproach. “He’s three minutes old, Lilia. Let the poor thing breathe.”
As the women bickered fondly, Elric knelt to place Liam in Mara’s arms. The baby’s vision sharpened just enough to see the rustic room—exposed wooden beams, drying herbs hanging from the ceiling, a fire crackling in a stone hearth. No beeping machines, no IV poles. Just three faces beaming down at him, their affection a tangible force.
Family, Liam realized, his infant heart swelling. They’re my family now.
Memories of his past life didn’t vanish but settled like sediment in wine, clarifying rather than clouding his mind. He’d read enough fantasy novels to recognize the signs—reincarnation in another world. But this was no fever dream. Mara’s arms were solid, her humming voice vibrating through him as she nursed him. Lilia’s playful pokes made him flail tiny fists, triggering her infectious giggles. Elric’s hands, though rough from labor, cradled his head with surgeon’s care.
That night, as the village midwife left and the cottage quieted, Liam lay awake in his woven bassinet. Moonlight streamed through the window, painting silver stripes across the floor. He flexed miniature fingers, marveling at the strangeness of rebirth. In his former life, he’d been a ghost—well-liked but rootless, drifting through others’ lives without anchors of his own. Now, he had a father who sang off-key lullabies, a mother whose mere scent soothed him, and a second mother who blew raspberries on his belly until he squealed (a sound that startled him—when had he last laughed so freely?).
“Sleep, little one,” Mara murmured, stirring from the bed. She tucked his blanket with practiced hands, her eyes lingering on his face. “So much ahead of you. So much love to give.”
As Liam drifted off, the Voice returned, softer now: “This is your tapestry to weave. Make it bold.”
