I'm Not The Protagonist

Chapter 4: Chapter 3 - To Change A Fate



The realization hit me like a train, the full 30 tonne son of a b*tch. As my mind raced, trying to figure out, how she died, why she died... I couldn't recall it.

"So? Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you like a frantic dog." She said.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Great, Caiden. You're off to a good start. You can't even answer your mom's question. Instead, I ended up just staring at her like a complete idiot, internally screaming at myself. Maybe I could just pretend I didn't hear the question and slip out of this conversation? Nah. She'd probably catch me anyway.

I swallowed, trying not to let the panic creep into my voice. The answer came late, after a few seconds of awkward silence. "I—um... I don't know. I've been... busy. You know, saving the world. Hero stuff."

She just shook her head gently, her gaze softening. "Caiden... Hero stuff doesn't explain the lateness."

I winced before letting out a long breath, trying not to drown in my own emotions. "Yeah, well... You see, I kinda have this weird thing with fate. It's like we're stuck in this cosmic dance where I keep stepping on its toes, and it's getting really tired of me. So... I'm trying to figure out how to not screw this up again."

She just stared at me.

"Mom... I'm sorry," I whispered under my breath, clutching my chest. There was so much I needed to fix. So many things I regretted.

Suddenly.

She wrapped her arms around me in a warm embrace, pulling me into a hug that felt like the kind of hug a mother gives when she knows you need it most—no questions asked.

"You don't have to apologize for anything, my child," she said softly. "You're here, and that's enough. And we'll figure it out together."

I froze for a second, the knot in my throat making it hard to breathe. A part of me just wanted to break down in her arms. But instead, I managed a weak smile, my voice coming out strained, "Well, that's a first. Someone's offering to fix things with me, and it's not Lorian."

"Who's Lorian?" She asked.

"Just the villain of my hero story." I replied

She smiled, her arms tightening slightly around me. "Well... We all have a Lorian I suppose, but you my son, are not alone." My Mother reassured me. "You don't have to carry everything by yourself."

For a moment, I just sat there, wrapped up in the warmth of her presence, and I let myself breathe, with the thought, I wasn't alone.

"Thanks...Mom." The word felt distant in my mouth, mom. I held onto her tightly, unsure of what tomorrow might bring, but unwilling to let this warmth go.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could make it right. I wasn't sure how, or what "right" even looked like, but for once, I wasn't staring down at the abyss of regret. I was... cautiously optimistic? Yeah, that sounds about right.

We walked, or rather, I walked with my mom. Holding her hand.

Now, I'll admit, for a moment, I had a little mental crisis. Here I was, a grown-ass man, holding my mother's hand. For a second, I felt like I was 10 again, trying to avoid stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. But then I told myself, hey, this was a very manly thing to do. A real man doesn't let his mother go wandering alone at night, right? Yeah, definitely manly.

As we walked, I couldn't help but wonder how the hell she managed to know where she was going in the dead of night. Was she secretly some kind of night-vision goddess, able to navigate the dark with ease? Because all I saw were a bunch of trees and shadows that looked like they could swallow me whole.

But, somehow, we found our way. And when we arrived at what I could only describe as our "humble abode," I felt an odd sense of contentment.

It was, indeed, humble. And by humble, I mean it looked like it was built by someone who wasn't too concerned with, you know, ensuring it wouldn't collapse on us in the middle of the night. But it was good. I could work with this. It was cozy in its own, slightly-dilapidated, character-building way.

To the left of the house was an estate, closed and gated. The iron bars of the gate were wrapped in vines, and the surrounding walls were overtaken by shrubs that looked like they had declared war on any form of maintenance. Inside the estate stood two goats, just... staring at me. Not grazing, not moving—just staring like they were silently judging my very existence.

"Home sweet... home?" I muttered, trying to hide the unease settling in my stomach.

Mom squeezed my hand and smiled warmly, as if she hadn't noticed the goats or the state of the house. "It's perfect, isn't it?"

Perfect? Well, it was definitely something. But instead of pointing out the cracks in the walls or the ominously sagging roof, I just nodded. "Yeah. It's got... character."

She laughed softly, her eyes gleaming with that unshakable optimism only mothers seem to have. And I swear, there was a knowing look she was holding back, like she knew something I didn't.

It wasn't what I expected, but I was used to this—this world. A world without all the shiny castles, the overpoweredness, and the hot babes... unless, of course, you were the protagonist.

And me? Well, I was here, standing next to my mother in a rickety house, being silently judged by goats. Definitely not protagonist material.

As we stepped inside, I realized that this tiny, humble home had something I hadn't realized I'd missed. Something as simple as a roof over my head, and the warmth of being here, with someone who cared. My mother.

"Alright," I muttered to myself as I shut the door behind me. "One step at a time."

My mother, whose name I had forgotten—what a lousy son—began stirring a pot of what I assumed was dinner, the warm light of the candles dancing off the walls. The concept of time seemed nonexistent in that moment. All that mattered were the scenes unfolding before me: the sound of the bubbling broth, the scent of something earthy and familiar wafting through the air, and the subtle, almost sacred warmth of the house.

When she finished, she ladled the food into a bowl—an old one, its surface marred with scratches and chips, the kind that spoke of years of use and countless meals shared. She handed it to me, along with a tarnished spoon.

"Where's your food?" I asked, glancing at the empty space in front of her.

"I already ate," she answered with a warm, reassuring smile.

I knew better.

Her smile was kind, but her eyes gave her away. This wasn't the first time she'd done this—putting me first and pretending she didn't need anything.

She must have noticed my hesitation because she added, "If you don't eat it, I'll feed it to the goats."

"You wouldn't," I thought, narrowing my eyes. But the look she gave me suggested otherwise.

So, I did what any starving kid would do—I ate my fill. And for a moment, everything else faded away. The food wasn't extravagant or even seasoned much, but in that moment, it was heaven. The warmth of it spread through my body, and I let myself relax for the first time in what felt like forever.

That was when she blindsided me.

"You're not Caiden... are you?"

I choked, nearly spitting the food back into the bowl.

The words hit me like a brick wall. I was so caught off guard that for a moment, I didn't know what to do. My mind raced, trying to piece together what she meant, how she could know—or even suspect.

I plastered on a guilty smile, forcing down my panic. "Whatever do you mean?" I said, my voice doing its best impression of calm.

Her gaze was steady, piercing, but there was no malice in it—just a quiet, knowing sadness that made my stomach twist. She didn't say anything else, just watched me, waiting for something.

She broke the silence, her voice steady but carrying a weight that pressed down on my chest.

"Or rather, you're not my Caiden. You look exactly like him, but in no way do you act like him. I know you're not my Caiden," she said sternly, her eyes boring into me.

The jig was up. My mind scrambled, calculating the best way to escape, scanning for doors, windows, or any path out of this place. But my body betrayed me, frozen in place. My thoughts turned inward, gnawing at my own question: Was my behavior really that different? Of course, it was. I wasn't the person this body used to belong to. What a stupid question.

"Not just your behavior," she continued, her voice softer now. But then she hesitated, her gaze dropping for a moment before meeting mine again.

"My Caiden… died. Three years ago."

The room plunged into silence.

"...Oh. I see," I muttered, my voice barely audible. I couldn't bring myself to look at her. My eyes stayed glued to the meal in front of me, now a reflection of the heavy atmosphere filling the room.

The quiet stretched on, oppressive and unbearable.

"So," she said finally, her voice sharp with curiosity but devoid of anger. "Who are you? The one who possesses my boy's body?"

I was silent, unsure how to respond. My mind screamed at me to lie, to say anything that might smooth this over. But deep down, I knew that wouldn't work.

"Well," she said, her voice softening again, "I would like you to know, I come with little malice."

Her words caught me off guard. There was no hostility in her tone, no accusation. Instead, there was something disarming about her warmth.

And then I remembered. In that dim alleyway, when I thought my body would give out and the world would swallow me whole, she had been there. She had found me, offered me her hand, and smiled—not out of pity, but with the kind of kindness that felt like a distant memory brought to life. It was a smile that promised safety, even if for just a moment.

That memory hit me like a wave, pulling me from my hesitation. Her compassion then wasn't an act, and it wasn't an act now.

For a moment, I just stared at her, my thoughts swirling. Finally, I decided.

"If you would believe me..." I said, my voice trembling slightly as I mustered the courage to continue. "I'm… not from here."

Her expression didn't change immediately, but I could see the gears turning in her mind as she processed my words.

"Not from here," she repeated softly, as if testing the words. "You mean… not from this town? Or... something else?"

I nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. "Not from this world."


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