The world has gotten bigger.
I'm nearly a year old now—I'll be one tomorrow. September 2nd marks the end of my first year of life, at least this one.
The house is still small, but it no longer contains me.
I can crawl with determination now, not like a flailing newborn but like something purposeful, pulled forward by instinct and will. My hands slap the wooden floorboards as I go about, and my knees thump softly behind me.
My balance isn't laughable anymore; I can stand now, more or less. Not gracefully, not without help, but with intention. I pull myself up using furniture, people's legs, the walls—anything I can grip. I teeter, wobble, fall, and do it again. No one minds. Falling here is just another word for growing.
They call me "brave," "curious," and "determined." I've done this before; I don't remember doing it, but I still feel pride when they compliment me.
Everyone cheers when I make any progress, even just one step.
My Mum cries sometimes—not big sobs, just those soft, proud tears that fall when she thinks no one's looking. She hides it behind tea mugs and folded washing.
My Babbo kisses the top of my head and calls me "piccolo uomo."
My Nan knits faster when I try to stand as if she's racing winter to wrap me in something warm.
Nonna, meanwhile, prays louder. Her voice rises when she thinks I'm about to tumble, as if heaven might catch me if she yells loud enough.
Even Nonno and Grandad smile now and then. That says more than words.
My babble now mimics theirs; my syllables are clearer and more deliberate than before.
I repeat the ones they want most. "Bab-bo," "Nan-ny," "Muh-mee." None are perfect, but they are close enough that they all claim victory.
My first word? "ta." Useful, neutral, uncommitted. Like a politician's first speech.
There was some argument over who it was meant for. It was my Nonna, but I'll never tell them that.
My appetite has grown, and my food is different now. No more mash and spoonfuls of soft pulp.
I eat nearly everything they give me: eggs, beans, bits of stewed lamb; I gnaw on toast crusts and chew over parsnips.
Grandad once gave me a slice of cold sausage when no one was watching. I gummed it like treasure while he grinned, like he was handing me a piece of tradition.
The shift in my diet has been a welcome change, although teething has been a very unpleasant experience.
Being consciously aware as your teeth push through your gums was not something I accounted for, nor was the excessive drooling that came with it when I dreamed of reincarnation.
I've even had my first cold. It knocked me flat for a day. My nose ran like a tap, and my chest rattled when I breathed. But I got through it. Warm arms, steam from kettles, and broth fed from a chipped cup.
My Nan brought eucalyptus water in a basin, sat with me, and hummed. I don't remember the melody, just the thrum of her chest and the warmth of her hand on my back.
That week, I experienced love that wasn't loud: the press of a cool cloth on my forehead and someone staying up just to make sure I breathed through the night.
Language has become layered now. Italian and English swirl through the air like flavours in a stew. Sometimes, I mix them, grabbing words from both when I need something: "Latte" or "milk," "giù" or "down."
I've begun pointing to things, babbling consistently, and waiting until they say what it is.
And there's Latin, too. Quiet, sacred. Still spoken only in whispers. Mostly when Nonno is tired or when Nonna prays.
I'm starting to learn bits and pieces, but nothing substantial.
I don't know if it's the adult mind, the plasticity of the child's brain, or a combination of the two, but I have been learning Italian and Latin faster than I ever would before dying.
It's not cold yet, but the air has teeth again. You can feel the chill creeping into the floorboards, curling around your ankles like a cat. Summer is retreating. Autumn has just started with its coal smoke and wool layers.
Mum took me to the local clinic last week, where the nurse weighed me like a sack of flour and checked my gums while tutting about my appetite. Outside, mothers stood in line with their prams, trading gossip and powdered milk coupons.
As we made it back, we saw the Unemployment line getting longer. Fortunately, we had it easier. Babbo only got a few hours docked. It hit us hard, but at least he still has a job.
The world smells different now—wet leaves, cooling brick, chimney soot, and rain-soaked soil. Tree leaves change colour and fall to the ground, while birds, swallows, swifts, and cuckoos migrate south, anticipating the coming winter.
There's still bunting from the Jubilee earlier this year, faded and fluttering in the breeze over the corner shop like no one had the heart to take it down. The cup Mum uses for my milk has King George V's face on it, his royal expression worn soft by time and countless washings.
The city speaks not just through people but through the constant breath of it—the rumble of distant trains, the clatter of boots on wet stone, the occasional clang of a bell. Even the fog has a voice here.
Sometimes, I hear the newspaper boys shouting headlines near the market—names like "Mosley" and "Empire."
London hums around me, vast and alive — and somehow, I'm already a part of it.
There's no wireless in our flat, but we hear the news anyway. Fortunately, downstairs, my grandad keeps his set on while reading the paper.
The other day, I heard a word that stilled the room: Germany. Then another: Nuremberg.
My Babbo tensed. My Mum looked away. Nonno and Grandad muttered curses under their breath. Nan and Nonna gave them both a smack.
It's starting to heat up.
That word—Nuremberg—hissed through the wireless like static. They didn't quite understand what this would mean for millions.
The signs of the next war were showing themselves. My family can feel something is happening, too, and it shows in the way silence falls over the dinner table when the wireless hisses between announcements.
Mussolini's rumblings toward Abyssinia began this summer. I caught that name on the radio, too.
It stirred something profound in my Babbo. He says little, but his brow scrunches when he hears that name. Babbo was born in Italy, but his loyalties lie here with his family. Still, I see his tension, torn between heritage and history.
Sometimes, when they think I'm asleep, they talk about moving.
They're worried; they're not the most educated, but they can tell conflict is brewing.
I want to warn them, but how weird would that be?
A one-and-a-half-year-old who still soils themselves starts talking about a coming war and a conflict so massive that it will erupt and involve every big nation from around the world, all fighting each other.
Even I wouldn't believe me if I weren't me.
I've reincarnated, I have knowledge that could help us, but no one would take me seriously, and Nonna would probably think I'm possessed.
The thought of knowing what is to come and not being able to do anything to help my family is devastating.
I wonder who I'll be when the war starts.
Will I be strong enough to help around the house, help this family I've grown to truly love?
Will I even survive the war?
There's a bomb site three streets over. It's just a fenced-off patch now, where weeds and foxgloves have crept through the rubble. No one rebuilt it after the last war. Adults cross the street when they pass it.
That could be us soon.
In my last life, my childhood birthdays were filled with cake and noise but not presence. I had friends, but I had no family. This time, I have fewer things but far more love.
They'll gather in the sitting room tomorrow, pass me around, and sing a song. There'll be sweetness on my tongue and a candle I'll puff at with more spit than breath.
They'll celebrate the beginning of my second year in this world.
But today, I lie on the rug in the sitting room. The smell of coal clings to everything, and the moonlight filters through the London smog, illuminating what little it can of our little world.
Staring at my hands—so small, yet growing—I wonder what they'll build, what they'll carry, and who they'll hold.
At night, I lie in my crib and think of the man I used to be. He feels distant now, a silhouette. His pain doesn't sting like it used to; it lingers as lessons and echoes.
He taught me loneliness, regret, and what it means to be given something rare.
A second chance.
I still don't know why I got it. Maybe I never will, but I've stopped fearing the answer. Because here, in this little house, with these people who love unconditionally, I've started to become someone new.
I'm excited to grow older for the first time in both my lives.
To see who I'll become.
I accept tomorrow.
Because I'm ready.