A DEAD MAN'S WISH

A searing flash of light pierced the void, and he gasped—or rather, he tried to gasp

as air fought its way into lungs that had never known breath. It was a strange, alien sensation, like a fire igniting within him, each cell awakening for the first time.

The world around him was chaos, overwhelming and incomprehensible, yet alive with energy. The muffled echoes of voices—urgent and disjointed—swirled around him like fragments of a dream. Pressure bore down on him from all sides, squeezing, constricting, forcing him forward. He felt the rhythmic contractions of a body that wasn't his own, propelling him toward an inevitable destiny.

This is birth.

The thought struck him with surreal clarity, but the physical sensations left no room for contemplation. The passage narrowed around him, crushing his fragile form as if testing his right to exist. Every nerve screamed with discomfort, the friction of flesh against flesh a grating, primal torment. And then, just as it became unbearable, he was expelled into the world in a burst of sensation.

The slap of cold air against his skin was like a thousand tiny needles. His body convulsed involuntarily, and a cry tore from his throat, raw and unbidden. It echoed in his ears, foreign yet unmistakably his own.

Light assaulted his untrained eyes, blinding and harsh. Everything was blurred, shapes swimming in a sea of brightness and shadow. The world was too loud, too bright, too much. He wanted to retreat, to curl back into the safety of darkness, but there was no going back.

A firm hand grasped him, lifting him into the air. He felt the slick wetness of his own body and the faint stickiness of blood and fluid. The sudden exposure left him trembling, his skin prickling as the chill seeped into him. He was weightless yet heavy, every movement jarring and unfamiliar.

Then came the warmth. He was wrapped in something soft, the coarse fibers scratching against his tender skin, but it was better than the cold. He was drawn close to a source of heat, a heartbeat echoing faintly beneath it. Instinctively, he turned his head, his tiny mouth seeking something he couldn't name but knew he needed.

The voices grew clearer now, their tones rising and falling in a strange symphony. One voice stood out—a low, soothing murmur that resonated in his chest. He couldn't understand the words, but the cadence felt safe, like the rhythm of a lullaby.

Through half-formed eyes, he glimpsed a face ,a hazy oval framed by shadows. There was something familiar about it, something that stirred a deep ache within him.

Mother.

The word surfaced unbidden, carrying with it a flood of emotions. Love. Regret. Longing. He had forgotten her face long ago, but now, seeing it anew, he realized how much he had missed her. Tears welled up in his eyes, not from pain but from the sheer weight of being.

---

Time moved strangely in these moments. Seconds stretched into eternity, each sensation amplified as if the world demanded his attention. He was aware of every sound, every shift in temperature, every heartbeat.

He felt the hands of others, a stranger's fingers brushing against him as they cut the cord that tethered him to the life he had left behind. He felt the cool press of metal against his skin, the faint sting of something sharp and fleeting. He didn't cry out this time, his tiny body too exhausted to protest.

He was placed into another pair of arms, the motion jostling him lightly. A second face loomed over him, different from the first but just as comforting. He felt the roughness of a calloused hand against his cheek and the faint tremor in the touch.

Father.

The realization hit him like a tidal wave. He had forgotten his father too, his voice, his laugh, the way he had carried him on his shoulders as a child. Now, in this fleeting moment, all of it came rushing back.

His father's voice was deeper, steadier, but tinged with something fragile. He could sense it in the way his arms tightened just slightly, as if afraid he might slip away.

I won't forget this time, he thought, though the words felt strange in his infant mind.

---

Days passed, or perhaps it was only hours. Time had a way of losing meaning in these early moments of life. He was carried, cradled, fed. The first taste of milk was strange and sweet, filling him with a warmth that spread through his tiny body. He clung to it, to the sensation of fullness and comfort, as if it were the only thing tethering him to this new world.

The days were a blur of sensations. The soft brush of fabric against his skin. The gentle sway of arms rocking him to sleep. The rhythmic sound of his mother's breathing as he lay pressed against her chest. Each moment was both fleeting and eternal, a paradox he couldn't fully comprehend.

Yet through it all, he felt an undercurrent of unease. He was not just an infant; he was himself, the man who had walked the Path of Regret and faced the god of time. He carried the weight of his memories, the lives he had seen, the choices he had made.

Why am I here? he wondered, though there was no answer.

---

One day, or perhaps it was night, he was taken home. The journey was a strange one, the sensation of movement lulling him into a half-sleep. He felt the rough fabric of a blanket beneath him, the faint jostle of the car as it navigated familiar roads.

When they arrived, he was carried inside. The air smelled faintly of lavender and something else—something warm and inviting. He was placed into a crib, the soft mattress beneath him cradling his tiny form.

He looked around, his vision still blurred but improving. The room was bathed in soft light, the walls adorned with shapes and colors that felt faintly familiar. He saw a mobile hanging above him, its delicate figures spinning slowly.

Home.

The word settled into his mind with a strange finality. This was where it would begin again, where he would grow and learn and make new choices.

He let out a soft coo, the sound startling him with its simplicity. It was neither a cry nor a laugh, just an expression of being.

As his eyes began to close, the weight of sleep pulling at him, a thought surfaced—clear and resolute.

Let's see how it goes.

And with that, he drifted into the quiet oblivion of newborn sleep, the possibilities of life stretching out before him like an uncharted map.