I awoke to the sight of an unfamiliar wooden ceiling, aged and cracked with time. A dim morning light filtered through the narrow window, casting golden lines across the modest room. My head throbbed faintly, and as I reached up to steady myself, fragments of memory surged forth like echoes of a forgotten dream.
Visions flashed before me—years compressed into moments. I saw a different life. My life. The one I had left behind.
Six years of memories swept through me like the gusts of wind that rattled the shutters. The Man of the Moon—yes, I remembered him now—his voice deep and distant like the sky itself. He had offered me a second chance. A rebirth.
And I accepted.
I had been born again in this strange and distant place, in a quiet village called Marlow. My name was no longer Nicholas Baker. Here, I was simply Jack. A child of humble roots, son of Thorne the hunter, and Serena, his gentle wife who kept the hearth warm and the home soft with kindness.
For six long years, the memories of my former life had been locked away, buried beneath the rhythm of a new existence. I had learned to walk again on these cobbled paths, to speak with a child's tongue, to live without the weight of the past.
But now, the veil had lifted.
The scent of burning pine reached my nose—a comforting, familiar aroma that belonged to this world, not the one I had left. A gentle clatter came from the hearth beyond the curtain that separated my room from the rest of our cottage. Mother was awake.
"Jack?" her voice called, soft as wool. "The sun's been up an hour."
"I'm coming," I answered, my voice still thin with sleep and awe. I wasn't sure if the memories would fade again, but they sat with me now, not heavy—just quietly present.
I dressed in my homespun tunic and woolen breeches, boots still caked with yesterday's mud resting by the door. The chill of morning clung to the air like breath on glass. As I stepped into the main room, warmth greeted me. The hearth crackled steadily, and beside it, my mother stood with sleeves rolled to her elbows, kneading bread dough with practiced grace.
"Did you dream again?" she asked without looking at me. She often did—asked that, I mean. As if she knew dreams meant something more to me than to others.
"Maybe," I said.
She glanced at me then, her eyes soft and knowing. "Then the bread will rise well today."
It was an old superstition—good dreams made good dough. I smiled faintly. She always found small ways to turn mystery into comfort.
Father returned before long, boots thudding on the wooden floor, dragging with him the scent of forest and earth and blood. A pair of rabbits hung from his belt, eyes glassy, bodies limp.
"Not bad for a quiet morning," he grunted, setting his bow down. His hands were rough with cold, but he reached for my shoulder and squeezed. "Help me skin them after breakfast."
I nodded, proud to be included. Father wasn't a man of many words, but his approval was something you could feel—it came through gestures, through work shared, through silence not cold but full.
We ate together at the wooden table Father had carved himself the year I turned four. It was uneven at the corners, and a dark knot of pine marred one side, but Mother had always called it honest work—and to her, honest things were the most beautiful.
Breakfast was modest: porridge sweetened with a drizzle of honey, a wedge of salted cheese, and warm bread that steamed when broken open. Father barely spoke during meals, but his eyes watched everything—my hands, how I chewed, the way I reached for the jug of goat's milk.
Mother hummed softly as she buttered a slice for me, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her hands still dusted with flour. Her touch was always gentle, as if the world might shatter if she pressed too hard. And perhaps, in her eyes, it could.
"How was the forest?" she asked Father.
"Too quiet," he said. "The crows are flying low, and the deer have moved east. Snow will come early this year."
Mother frowned faintly. "Then we'll need more wood stacked. Jack can help you today."
Father gave a brief nod. "After we clean the rabbits."
I didn't mind. Work filled the hours, and in truth, I liked the rhythm of it—the scraping of hides, the sharp pull of a blade through sinew, the scent of pine and sap and blood that clung to our gloves. It was real. More real than the shadows of the life I once had.
Outside, the village of Marlow was slowly waking. Smoke curled from the chimneys of neighboring cottages, and the lowing of cows drifted from the pasture near the chapel. The cobblestone road was slick with morning frost, crunching under our boots as Father and I stepped out.
We walked behind the cottage to the skinning block beneath the lean-to. Father handed me one rabbit and began on the other. His hands moved with practiced ease, the knife flashing in the light like water over stone. I watched, mimicking each motion as best I could.
"Don't saw," he muttered. "Pull clean. Let the blade do the work."
I adjusted my grip, and the skin slipped easier. I could feel his gaze watching, silently weighing my progress. That was his way—no praise for the sake of praise, only what was earned.
When we were done, he nodded once. "Good. Wash your hands. Then the woodpile."
I obeyed, dipping my fingers into the rain barrel, cold enough to bite through skin. My breath fogged as I wiped them on my trousers. Father was already splitting logs with rhythmic strikes, muscles moving beneath the coarse linen of his shirt, breath steady.
I grabbed an armload of chopped wood and stacked it against the side of the cottage. Each piece made a solid sound as it met the next. We worked in near silence, but it was a peaceful silence—the kind built on understanding rather than absence.
By the time the sun had risen above the treetops, my arms ached from hauling wood, and my cheeks were numb with cold. Father had returned to the forest to check his traps, leaving me behind with the promise that I'd help tan the pelts later. I watched him disappear down the woodland path, his figure swallowed by the misty green, as quiet as a ghost.
Back inside, the warmth of the hearth wrapped around me like a familiar blanket. Mother was kneeling near the fire, adding dried thyme to the pot of stew that would simmer until dusk. She glanced over her shoulder as I stepped in, brushing a smudge of ash from her cheek with the back of her wrist.
"All done?" she asked, her smile gentle.
I nodded and sat on the stool near her. "He said I was getting better at skinning."
She raised her brows with amused pride. "He said that?"
"Well… he didn't say it like that. But he didn't correct me much today."
She chuckled, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. "From Thorne, that's the same as a standing ovation."
We shared a quiet laugh. Her laughter was soft and round, like the sound of wooden beads clinking together. I always thought it was one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.
"Can I help?" I asked.
She tilted her head thoughtfully, looking at the shelves beside her. "You can fetch the dried onions. We'll make flatbread for supper."
I stood quickly, eager to be of use. Helping her in the kitchen always felt different than helping Father in the woods. There was no rush, no weight of silence, no sharp blade in my hand. Only the scent of herbs, the warmth of the fire, and her voice filling the space like music.
I climbed onto the stool to reach the higher shelf, fingers brushing the coarse twine that tied the onions together. As I handed them down, I paused. "Mama… do you ever wonder about before? Before I was born?"
She glanced up from the dough she was rolling, her expression unreadable for a moment. "Why do you ask that, love?"
"I don't know," I said, not ready to explain. "Sometimes I just wonder if I was someone else."
She smiled softly and reached over to cup my cheek, her palm warm and worn from work. "No matter who you were, Jack, you are my son now. That's what matters."
Her touch grounded me. I leaned into it slightly, the way I had as a smaller child. Her eyes were the color of soft moss, always steady. When I looked at her, I didn't see a stranger who had raised someone else's soul—I saw the woman who had soothed my fevers, sung me to sleep on stormy nights, and wrapped my tiny fingers in hers when I took my first steps in this life.
"You say that every time I ask."
"Because it's always true."
She continued kneading the dough, folding and pressing, folding and pressing, the rhythm almost meditative. I stood beside her, watching, mimicking her movements with the extra bit she gave me to practice.
"Your father was so proud when you were born," she said after a while. "He didn't speak for three days—just held you like you were a flame he didn't dare let go out."
I smiled at the image. It was hard to imagine Father that soft, but I liked the thought.
"And you?" I asked.
"Oh, I wept like a fool," she said with a grin. "You screamed so loud I thought the roof might collapse. And then, when you looked up at me… I knew I would never need anything else in the world again."
A strange emotion welled up in my chest—grief, maybe, or gratitude, or something nameless that sat between both. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pressed my forehead to her side.
"I'm glad it was you," I whispered.
She stroked my hair, saying nothing, but I felt her heart beat strong and steady through.
By late afternoon, the stew filled the house with a scent so rich it seemed to cling to the beams overhead. The hearth glowed with a quiet strength, and outside, the sky had turned the color of faded lavender, streaked with gold as the sun dipped behind the hills of Marlow.
I had finished helping Mother with the flatbread and was now seated on the step outside the front door, a wool blanket draped around my shoulders. I watched the last of the smoke rise from the chimneys around the village, listened to the faint bell ringing from the chapel down the road. Children's laughter echoed faintly in the distance—some still playing before their mothers called them in.
I saw my father's silhouette approaching long before he reached the gate.
He walked with the same quiet purpose he always had, bow slung across his back, a satchel of game in one hand. A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I stood to open the gate for him.
"Good haul?" I asked.
He gave a soft grunt—his usual greeting—and reached into the satchel, pulling out a pheasant, two squirrels, and a bundle of herbs he'd foraged.
"Not bad. Found elderberries too." He handed them to me. "Your mother will want these before the frost kills the bushes."
I took them carefully, their dark purple skins plump and cold. "She'll be happy."
Father looked at me a moment, then placed his hand briefly on the back of my neck, a gesture I had come to understand as affection.
We stepped inside together.
Mother turned at the sound of the door. "Oh, you're just in time. Jack, bring the berries here. And wash your hands again."
"Yes, Mama."
I darted to the wash basin, and by the time I returned, the table was set. Flatbread still warm, the stew thick with meat and carrots, steam rising from our clay bowls. Mother had even brewed chamomile tea—a rare treat saved for quiet evenings like this.
We sat together, the three of us, as the wind whispered against the walls outside.
Father bowed his head. "Thank the soil. Thank the sky. Thank the hands that worked."
"Amen," Mother and I echoed.
For a few moments, the only sound was the clink of spoons and the occasional satisfied breath. Then Father glanced up at me.
"You stacked the wood straight this time."
I blinked, surprised. "You noticed?"
"'Course I did." His lips curled just slightly. "Didn't think you'd ever get the angles right."
I laughed, cheeks flushed from the praise. Mother smiled over her cup. "Told you he was watching."
"Always is," I muttered, grinning.
We ate slowly, savoring the meal and the quiet that filled the space between words. There was something sacred about it—this simple act of eating together, of warmth shared beneath an old roof, of knowing that each face at the table had carried your name in their hearts.
When the meal was done, I helped clear the bowls while Mother covered the leftovers and Father refilled the firewood near the hearth. The wind outside picked up, rattling the shutters gently, as though to remind us that winter was never far.
I took my usual place by the fire, sitting on the rug with my legs crossed. Father lowered himself into his carved chair beside it, and Mother began to mend one of his cloaks near the candlelight. The amber glow painted them both in golden edges—the hunter and the healer, silent in their love.
"Tell me a story," I said suddenly, glancing at Mother.
She looked up, thread paused in her hand. "Which one?"
"The one about the owl and the river. The one you used to tell me when I was little."
Father let out a short breath that might've been a laugh. "Still clings to that old tale."
Mother winked. "It's a good tale."
She set down the cloak and leaned closer to the fire, voice low and warm. "Once, long ago, there was an owl who had never seen the stars…"
And so she told it, as she always had. And I listened, as I always would—for in that small, firelit room, I was no longer the boy who had died once. I was simply Jack. A son. A child loved.
The fire had burned low, and outside the wind had grown restless, howling through the trees like distant wolves calling one another. The cottage was quiet now. Mother had gone to bed, her sewing folded neatly on the table, and Father had checked the traps one last time before retreating to their room with a nod in my direction.
But I stayed awake.
I sat curled beneath the wool blanket by the hearth, staring into the glowing embers. The shadows on the walls danced slowly, like old spirits remembering forgotten songs. My hands rested in my lap, still smelling faintly of pine and smoke. My breath moved in slow, even rhythm—peaceful, steady, alive.
Alive.
The word sat heavy in my chest.
Six years ago, I had died.
And yet here I was—breathing, listening, thinking.
I didn't remember the moment my heart stopped in the old world. I only remembered the cold. The silence. The stillness before I heard the voice—low, distant, eternal. The Man of the Moon.
I hadn't seen his face, only the soft curve of silver light and the feeling of being… watched, but not judged. Measured, perhaps. Weighed.
He had spoken not with words, but with meaning. With presence.
"Would you live again ?"
I had answered yes . I had nothing left to lose, and everything to gain.
And he—whoever he truly was—had sent me here.
To this little cottage.To these hands, this name, this life.
At first, I had lived as a blank slate, like a candle without flame. My childhood in Marlow had been real, but distant—shadows against a brighter wall I had not yet turned to face. But today… today, the memories had returned.
And still, I did not ache.
I felt… at peace.
I looked around the small, weather-worn room—the stone walls, the simple shelves, the carved chair my father sat in, the quilt my mother had sewn, the wooden spoon hanging above the hearth that still bore a scorch mark from the day I'd dropped it into the fire. This was not luxury. This was not glory.
But it was home.
And more than that—it was mine.
"I don't know why you chose me," I whispered, eyes on the dying flame, "or why you let me come back. Maybe I don't need to know."
The wind howled again beyond the shutters, but the cottage remained solid, grounded, as if held together by love alone.
"Thank you," I said softly. "Wherever you are. Whatever you are. Thank you for this life."
The last ember sparked and gave a soft sigh as it cracked. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and leaned back against the wall, watching the shadows fade.
Tomorrow, I would rise early again. Chop wood. Tend to the snares. Help Mother gather herbs. Learn the names of birds from Father. Perhaps carve something small with his old knife, if he let me.
I no longer cared what I had lost before.Because I had found something here.Something quiet.Something whole.
And that, I thought, was enough.