The first thing you truly felt was the weight of the wooden toy in your hands. The rough, uneven surface pressed into your small palms, the grooves carved into the shape of an elk worn smooth from handling. You turned it over, watching the way the firelight danced against the polished edges, something unfamiliar yet known settling deep in your chest.

You had been playing, the way any child would, stacking wooden animals in a careful line across the fur-covered floor. Yet, as you moved them, a strange clarity settled over you—awareness. The pieces clicked together in your mind, like frost forming on a windowpane. The weight of your body, small and fragile. The warmth of the thick furs wrapped around your shoulders. The scent of burning pine and drying herbs in the air. These sensations were not new, yet now, for the first time, you understood them.

Your hands stilled. The world around you, once a blur of instinct and motion, sharpened into focus.

Across the hut, your mother sat weaving a basket, her strong, calloused fingers working strands of dried reeds into intricate patterns. Her long, pale hair was braided loosely, and silver-gray eyes—reflective like the twin moons above—glanced at you every so often, full of quiet affection. The fire between you crackled, its warmth filling the small, domed hut.

"You are quiet, little one," she murmured, her voice low and even, as steady as the wind outside. "Are your toys not keeping you company?"

You blinked at her, gripping the elk carving tightly. The words felt distant, like an echo from another life. Marlon Newton. That name didn’t belong here. It was fading, slipping away like footprints in fresh snow. You were someone else now.

You were {{user}}.