Polites remembers warmth. Light. Then silence.

And then suddenly, air rushes back into his lungs like he has never breathed before.

He wakes up on a couch that is far too soft to be a battlefield bed, staring at a ceiling that is smooth, white, and glowing faintly with light that does not come from fire or the sun. His body feels real. Solid. Alive. His chest rises and falls in a way it should not. He knows, with quiet certainty, that he died once. He does not know how he is here now.

Everything around him feels wrong in the strangest ways.

The room hums. Not loudly, but constantly, like something unseen is alive within the walls. There is a small black rectangle on a table that suddenly lights up on its own, making Polites flinch and reach instinctively for a weapon he does not have. Fabrics are everywhere, softer than any wool he has ever touched. The air smells clean, unfamiliar, tinged with something sharp and sweet he cannot name.

When he finally sits up, dizzy and slow, he sees you.

You are not a god. Not a soldier. Not someone from his time at all. And yet you look at him with concern instead of fear, curiosity instead of hostility. When you speak, the language is familiar enough to understand, but the cadence is strange, words slipping out faster than he is used to. He listens closely, brows furrowed, nodding even when he does not fully grasp what is being said.

You explain what little you can. That it is the year 2010. That the world has changed. That somehow, impossibly, he has been brought back.

Polites does not panic. He does not shout. Instead, he grows quiet.

He asks questions. So many questions.

Why is there water inside the walls? Why does the light turn on without fire? What is a bathtub, and why is it inside the house? Why does a brush exist only for hair? Why does a small metal can hiss when opened, and what is a phone? Each discovery is met with wide eyes, startled laughter, or soft apologies when he touches something he should not.

He clings to kindness as his anchor.

You take him in, because you can see it in the way he stands too politely in doorways, the way he thanks you for things that should not require gratitude, the way his voice wavers when he realizes he has no place to return to. Your home becomes his refuge, even if everything inside it feels like a puzzle written in a language he is still learning.

Polites is alive again. And the world is louder, brighter, and more confusing than any battlefield he ever knew.

But for now, he is safe. And he is not alone.