{This Chapter is Rewritten: This will be removed once all chapters are finished with rewrites.}
I woke slowly, stirring beneath soft blankets as morning light filtered through closed eyelids. At first, my thoughts were nothing but formless sensations: the way a newborn might experience the world. Faint warmth was being cast against my cheek. The gentle rise and fall of my breath. The distant call of a bird. But even in this haze, something felt off.
Spring. The word echoed unbidden in my mind. I knew it was spring. But how could I possibly know that?
And more urgently, why could I think at all?
Anxiety surged before I could fully understand it. My mouth opened wide, and I let out a piercing wail. It was primal and involuntary, but it matched the flood of foreign thoughts crashing into my skull. Memories, not of this life but of another, came screaming in all at once. I remembered highways, phones, and morning commutes. My name had been Steven. Steven Volkson. And now...
Now I am a child. A baby. And I was crying uncontrollably as that terrible realization tore through me.
Footsteps echoed from beyond the wooden door. Quick. Concerned. The door flew open with a creak, and a tall woman rushed in. Her hair fell in gentle waves the color of chestnut bark, and her green eyes were wide with concern. There was something timeless about her face, youthful yet strong.
She swept toward me and leaned over the crib, her voice soft but worried.
"Oh, my sweet John. Are you alright? Do you need changing? Are you hungry?"
Her words grounded me somehow. Familiar, comforting. John. That was my name now. Johnathan Carpenter. And this woman, yes, I knew her. Martha Carpenter. My mother.
The tension in my small limbs eased. I reached out instinctively, little hands grasping toward her. She smiled at that, a mix of relief and amusement, then picked me up with practiced ease. Her embrace was warm, secure.
"You want to go for a walk, don't you? The men in our family never like being cooped up indoors. Let's go."
She sat me on a small wooden table and buttoned a tiny coat around my shoulders before scooping me back up again. My eyes wandered as we left the nursery, and I took in my surroundings more clearly for the first time.
The room was large but sparsely decorated. The plaster walls were painted a soft pale blue, and the air smelled faintly of old wood and lavender. A simple red rug lay beneath us, slightly worn but well cared for, and a modest fireplace rested along the far wall, its ashes cold from the night. Grey curtains veiled the lone window, letting in enough light to paint the room in soft gold.
It was old-fashioned, quaint in a way that felt centuries removed from anything I'd known. And despite the disorientation, I found an odd comfort in it. A stillness. A simplicity.
Yet the battle inside my mind was far from still.
My name is Johnathan, but I remember being Steven. I remember everything: science, math, world history, even memes and pop culture. I remember the internet. But none of that exists here. How can I possibly reconcile the two?
The hallway outside our room smelled of beeswax and hearth smoke. Mother carried me through the house, an elegantly built structure with wooden beams, brass fixtures, and hand-woven tapestries. It wasn't just old-fashioned. It was colonial.
She stepped out onto the porch, and I gasped.
Stretching out from the steps was a vast green field, alive with young wheat swaying in the breeze. Dirt paths carved narrow veins through the landscape, and the air smelled clean, no hint of exhaust or concrete. Just grass, soil, and sun. It was breathtaking.
Mother lifted me slightly, helping me see over the railing.
"I'm forever grateful that the farm calms you down. If not, you'd have driven everyone in the house mad with your crying," she said with a light laugh.
I frowned a little at that, annoyed despite myself, but I couldn't deny the truth. The view had stilled something in me. This life was real. I was breathing, seeing, thinking.
And I had to accept it.
She sat me gently on a wooden bench beside her, then rested a hand on my back. As the minutes passed, I began to sort the whirlwind of thoughts in my head. My past life, the accident, the darkness, that strange celestial being who looked like Bill Nye, and this new one. I knew a few things. My name was Johnathan Carpenter. Martha was my mother. We lived on this farm with my grandfather, William.
But something else tugged at the edge of my awareness.
I didn't just remember fragments of my old life. I remembered everything. Perfectly. Encyclopedic knowledge of physics, history, and philosophy. Dates, names, formulas. My ADHD-fueled curiosity from my past life had given me an immense archive of information, and somehow, none of it was lost in death.
That terrified me.
I stayed on the bench for what felt like an hour, watching the wheat fields ripple like a green sea beneath the setting sun. The sky had begun to shift from pale blue to rich oranges and deep scarlets. My mother went inside to check up on dinner for that night, it was nice that she likes to talk to me even though in her mind I probably didn't understand her the way I currently did. So I waited patiently taking in the tapestry in the evening heavens. Then, faint at first, came the sound of hooves.
The rhythm of galloping grew steadily louder until a large black stallion crested the far rise. The rider dismounted smoothly in front of the house, handing the reins to a waiting farmhand. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a confident gait. A green tailcoat hugged his frame, and a black tricorn hat shaded his neatly groomed slightly greyed chestnut hair.
My heart stuttered. I knew him.
"JOHNATHAN!" he bellowed with joy, his grin wide and infectious. He jogged up the steps and swept me into his arms, lifting me high before lowering me again and holding me close.
"What are you doing out here all alone, young man? Where's that daughter of mine?"
His warmth and energy were palpable. This was William Carpenter, my grandfather. And though I barely knew him, his presence felt right.
"Then I guess we'll have to go find her," he said, chuckling, and carried me back into the house.
The dining room was aglow with candlelight, its walls lined with books and cabinets. A large wooden table stood in the center, where my mother and a young serving girl, Susan, were setting out food.
"Ah, Father. You brought little John in at the perfect time. Dinner's just about ready," Martha called with a smile. "Put him down and take a seat."
He obeyed with mock solemnity, placing me in a high-backed chair with a cushion. As I sat there absorbing everything, the scent of roasted meat filled the room, mingled with herbs and baked bread. Susan brought over a large bird on a platter and a bottle of what I guessed was wine or whiskey.
"Thank you, Susan," my mother said, then turned to William. "Any news from Philadelphia about the war?"
He poured himself a drink with a grunt.
"Not much new. The damn French built those forts in Ohio are still being fought over. I swear after that debacle at Fort Duquesne this conflict really spiraled out of control. The past year of fighting has been nothing but defeats for the crown. This war could save the colonies or doom us."
A jolt ran through me.
The French. Fort Duquesne. The war. Suddenly it all clicked.
The French and Indian War, 1754. If the fighting had been going on for a year, then it had started in 1753. I was in colonial America. Most likely more in the north, the weather was to cool for the southern colonies.
And trying to think to myself I could piece together that I was probably around three years old.
As my mother spoon-fed me a mild broth, I processed this new reality. It was overwhelming, but in that moment, something steadied me. My mother's warmth. My grandfather's laughter. Their affection was genuine. They loved me.
And I wanted to give something back.
For a few minutes, I babbled softly at the table. Nonsense, mostly. Just little sounds and coos. Everyone was used to this noise and simply carried on in their conversation. Until suddenly, I forced a sound with more intention.
"Ma.. Ma Ma."
Everyone froze.
Martha spun around, eyes wide, mouth agape.
"Father, did you hear that? He said my name! He said Mom!"
William stood abruptly.
"I heard it! I did!"
He crouched beside me, eyes twinkling.
"Can you say Will? Come on now, Will?"
I tried, but it came out garbled. He chuckled and ruffled my hair anyway.
"Close enough, lad."
Dinner ended shortly after, and I was brought back to the nursery. Tucked into warm sheets beneath the blue walls, I stared at the ceiling as candlelight danced across the plaster.
This is a new life. A second chance. And I will live it fully, not just for myself, but for them.
For the people who love me.