Consciousness came crawling back like a dial-up connection. One minute, I’d been Luke, engineering student and victim of feline treason. The next? A screeching potato with no motor skills.

  Okay. Buddhist reincarnation. Hindu rebirth. Whatever. Just… don’t freak out.

  Problem 1: My senses were useless. The world was a watercolor painting dunked in Vaseline—blurry shapes, muffled sounds, and a nose assaulted by incense smoke and… sour milk? A woman’s voice hummed nearby, her words as decipherable as a dial tone. Great. I don’t even speak baby here.

  Problem 2: I had the muscle control of a jellyfish. I tried to lift my hand. Something twitched, but it might’ve been a sneeze.

  Problem 3: Acting. The room screamed pre-industrial—rough tapestries, clay lamps, a cradle carved with symbols that looked like angry squiggles. If these people caught a whiff of my 21st-century brain, I’d be labeled a demon faster than you could say “exorcism.” Time to master the art of strategic incompetence.

  Priorities: Cry when hungry. Stare vacantly at mobiles. Do not recite the periodic table during tummy time.

  The woman—young, olive-skinned, dressed in finely embroidered linen—leaned over the crib. Her smile was warm, but her eyes lingered on me a beat too long. Does she suspect something?

  “Hamza,” she murmured, tapping my chest.

  Wait. That’s… me? The word meant nothing, but her tone was possessive. A name, maybe.

  She lifted me, and my head lolled like a bobblehead. Fantastic. From this angle, the room sharpened slightly: arched stone walls, a geometric-patterned rug, and a wooden door with iron hinges thicker than my future prospects. Medieval. Possibly earlier. Definitely no electricity.

  A younger woman—dressed plainer, posture submissive—bustled in, bowing deeply. She rattled off a sentence that sounded like “Blah-blah-blah, the blah is—”

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  The first woman—my mother?—nodded curtly. Authority. Status. Nobility, maybe.

  The servant reached for me, and instinct kicked in. Don’t let the stranger take me—

  Wait. No. Bad move. I forced myself to go limp, playing the part of a floppy, unremarkable infant.

  Good. Just a normal baby. Nothing to see here.

  They carried me to a sunlit courtyard. Blinding light, heat, dust. Whitewashed walls, horseshoe arches, and geometric tilework in cobalt and emerald. A fountain burbled nearby, its basin tiled in intricate arabesques. Guards in polished turbans patrolled, their curved swords glinting. Not spears. Swords. Whoever ruled here had money, taste, and probably a standing army.

  A memory flickered—Luke’s memory—of a headline: SOLAR FLARE WILL END CIVILIZATION. Then… static. A headache pulsed behind my eyes. What else did I know? What am I forgetting?

  Fragments surfaced: equations, diagrams, a cat’s tail swishing past a keyboard. But when I reached for them, they dissolved like smoke.

  Focus. Observe.

  The servant handed me to a broad-faced woman with a no-nonsense grip. Her perfume smelled like flowers dunked in vinegar. Oh god, don’t sneeze—

  “Ya Allah!” the woman laughed, bouncing me.

  Shit. Too much eye contact. I went cross-eyed and let drool pool on my chin.

  Crisis averted.

  Back in the crib, I pieced together clues:

  

  
1. Status: Fancy room, subservient staff. Either nobility or cult leaders.


  
2. Location: Humid, sun-soaked air heavy with the scent of citrus blossoms. The courtyard brimmed with orange trees, their branches sagging with fruit, and terraced gardens threaded with narrow water channels. Irrigation. Advanced, even. Not the desert—this place felt like a crossroads between paradise and a fortress.


  
3. Parents: The woman’s fine clothes, the deference she commanded. Governor’s wife? Merchant royalty?


  

  Step 1: Survive infancy without getting exorcised.

  Step 2: Learn the goddamn language.

  Step 3: Figure out why my brain feels like a corrupted hard drive.

  The servant returned, humming as she lit an oil lamp. The flame danced, casting shadows that looked… wrong. Almost liquid. I stared, transfixed, until she noticed.

  “Awww, blah-blah Hamza blah-blah-blah?”

  Abort. I kicked my legs and wailed like a car alarm.

  There we go. Textbook baby behavior. Gold star for me.

  As she rushed to soothe me, I made a vow: I’d play the part. Decode this world through context clues. Unlock whatever secrets my mind was hoarding. And maybe, just maybe, find a way to reinvent toilet paper.

  But first? Nap.