A gentle breeze brushed across the vast wheat fields, like a sea of gold slowly rippling with the breath of the world. Each grain shimmered beneath the sunlight, reflecting a warmth that was not only felt on the skin, but pierced deep into the heart.
This world… felt like an unfinished dream. Beautiful, calming, and at the same time… unfamiliar.
I opened my eyes beneath the shade of a great tree, its trunk sturdy and rough, its branches towering as if holding up the sky itself. The bark felt cool against my back. A simple sensation… yet miraculous. I could feel it. Touch. Warmth. Breath.
Breath
"Am I alive… again?" I whispered softly, my voice hoarse, heavy, as if crawling up from the depths of a dream I had just left behind.
I don't remember what happened after I died earlier. But I know that I did. My old world was over, lost to the flow of time and perhaps… left without a trace.
My body now was so small. Both of my hands were tiny, almost like those of a living doll. My hair fell against my temples, soft, swaying lightly as the wind passed. My legs trembled when I tried to stand. My breath caught.
Behind me, not far from the tree where I had been lying, stood a house. A simple house, with white stone walls and a thatched roof, its small windows open wide. Thin smoke drifted from its chimney, carrying the scent of burning wood and… warm bread?
"What is this… a village?" I murmured softly, stepping slowly through grass that reached up to my knees. In the distance, the landscape resembled a fragment torn from a history book illustration: wheat fields, small farms, old wooden fences, and dirt roads leading who knew where.
Everything felt like a fragment of the past, as if I had been thrown into a replica of medieval European life. But this was real. Very real. The sun felt warm. The wind whispered the scent of grass and soil. No vehicle noises, no phone signals. A living silence.
Across the field, several people were working. A broad-built man swung a sickle with a rhythm that almost resembled a dance. Behind him, two other men guided a cart filled with harvest. The sound of horse hooves striking the ground—clop clop clop—formed a soothing natural symphony.
I hid behind a bush, only my head peeking out. For some reason, this body reacted like that of a shy child. But my mind was still mine. Still… intact. And questioning.
If I died in my old world… then who am I now?
And if scientists back there knew that my mind—my consciousness—had awakened in another body in a foreign world… would they hunt me down? Study me? Peel apart my existence for the sake of science?
I thought about it absurdly.
"If only someone could record what's inside my brain right now," I muttered quietly, with a faint sneer. "A dead human who rises again, thrown into a world full of wheat fields and stone houses… they'd probably call me a spiritual anomaly or a terminal hallucination patient."
One of them—the broad man with the large sickle in his right hand—raised his arm high and waved in my direction. His face broke into a wide smile, sweat dripping down his temples. He looked tired, but… friendly. The two others pushing the harvest cart also turned their heads. One gave a slight nod, while the other—the older one—lifted his straw hat and grinned, as if to say, "Hey, kid, are you alright?"
I just stood there. Silent.
This body… was small. Too small.
My heart beat a little faster. Its reflexes were still unfamiliar. I stared at my own hands, clean, light and small. I looked like a six-year-old child who had just woken up in the middle of a field.
But I knew. I was not that.
I was not a lost child. I was just a victim of an accident and a runaway from home. I… died. And now I was alive again.
But why were they so friendly?
"…Strange," I whispered, swallowing. "Why are they smiling like that?"
I glanced around. No one else. No overseers. No CCTV cameras watching, no guards dressed in black. They were just… farmers. Real farmers, with tattered clothes, sunburned shoulders, and weary smiles that seemed like part of daily habit.
"Could they be trying to trap me?" I suddenly thought.
I stared at the wheat cart they were pulling. The horse drawing it looked tame. They could easily throw something—warm bread, or ice cream from this world—and when I smiled innocently and came closer…
They'd drag me into a sack and sell me at the slave market in the next city.
"Listen, in medieval Europe, unprotected children could easily be kidnapped and turned into slaves," I reminded myself. "That's not a joke. This is a world without a modern legal system. No censorship. No human rights I can rely on."
I took a long breath, slowly.
"Calm down. Don't panic. You've already died once—are you really afraid of three sweaty farmers?"
The gentle wind brushed against my face. The tall grass along the footpath swayed softly, as if waving slowly. The stone path beneath my feet was rough, but neat enough to walk on even barefoot. On both the left and right sides, simple wooden fences stood low, only waist-high. Perhaps to keep livestock from entering the fields. Perhaps merely as boundary markers.
I was still standing at the end of that road.
"They're friendly… too friendly. Or maybe this really is how humans are supposed to treat children?" I muttered, staring at their hands as they waved.
"Kind adult figures… yes, maybe this is what they look like. How funny that I'm only beginning to understand that meaning in my second life."
I sighed.
"All right, even if they are kidnappers, at least I don't want to die again in a miserable way."
Then, I raised my hand. I waved back, slowly, mimicking the most natural gesture I could manage for an innocent child.
A smile? Yeah, a small one. Not wide. Not overly cheerful. Just peaceful enough to make them think this child was harmless.
"Let's say I'm an actor. This is the stage. And I'm playing the role of a sweet orphan boy who knows nothing."
My steps began to move along the footpath. Slowly. Not hurried, not suspicious. Just walking like a small child trying to go home or looking for his mother.
Several stone houses began to appear closer. Their walls were dull white, some reinforced with wood at the lower parts, with thatched roofs curving like mushrooms. From the chimney of the nearest house, thin smoke rose—signs of activity. The smell of bread. Burning wood. And maybe… tea?
But only one house stood closest to me.
I stopped for a moment at its slightly open gate. That house… was symmetrical, clean, and didn't look frightening. Not like a witch's house in a fairy tale. Not like a detention barrack. But somehow… I felt something from it.
This house… was clean. Too clean for an ordinary village house. Its white walls were symmetrical, its wooden windows opened wide, and from inside drifted a faint scent of cinnamon—or perhaps dried flowers laid out inside?
I stared at it without moving.
"What should I do now?" I asked myself silently.
Knock on the door?
Yes… that made the most sense. But… knock and then say what?
"Excuse me, I've just come back to life. Could you give me a cup of water and some directions about this world?"
No. Too honest. Too stupid.
Maybe ask about a map? But… would a place like this even have a map?
"Excuse me, do you have a world map?"
No. Villagers don't keep world maps. Even in my previous world, ordinary people didn't keep maps. And even if they did, it would probably just be a rough sketch on tree bark—more suitable to be called a field map than a world map.
Directions?
I didn't even know where I was trying to go.
My eyes scanned the surroundings. No signposts. No road markers. No village name, no boundary signs, no stone pillars marking directions. Just fields, fences, and rows of houses that seemed to grow straight out of the earth.
"Such a strange village," I muttered softly. "Or maybe… this world doesn't need directions, because no one ever really leaves this place."
I glanced again toward the farmers who were still working. They were no longer looking at me, busy with their wheat and cart. But I still felt… too exposed if I walked toward them. Too easy to be grabbed and questioned.
"No, too risky. I'm too paranoid to approach them."
I swallowed. Then took a slow breath.
"All right," I whispered, straightening this small body. "Behave like a polite child. A polite child isn't suspicious. A polite child can ask questions… and stay alive."
I stepped past the fence. A small creaking sound echoed as the wooden hinge moved. The stone path led my feet toward the front door. I knocked softly. Once. Twice. Then three times, clear enough but not rushed.
After a few seconds, a voice came from behind the door. Soft, but with a faint firmness at the end of its tone.
"Just a moment."
Slow footsteps approached. The creak of hinges followed.
The door opened slowly, and the figure of a woman appeared before me.
She looked young—perhaps in her late twenties—with honey-blonde hair tied to the side with a plain cloth ribbon. Her face was clean, without makeup, but her green eyes stood out. Living emeralds that now scanned me from head to toe. There was surprise there, and perhaps also a hint of… relief?
"What are you doing outside? Come in," she said quickly.
Her tone sounded like a scolding. Not harsh, but also not the gentle greeting I had imagined would come from someone who had just found a small child standing alone in front of her door.
Hm? Wait. It sounded like I was being scolded.
I blinked slowly, then glanced left and right.
Was this some kind of local welcome? Or was it village tradition to greet guests by raising one's voice an octave?
I stepped inside, the door closing slowly behind me. First impression? This house felt warm—not in temperature, but in how everything was arranged. Stone floors, a long dining table made of old wood, wooden windows half open, and sunlight reflecting off clay cups. In the corner of the room, shelves lined neatly with glass bottles and thick books.
It really was like medieval Europe. From the architecture, the lighting, even the scent of wood and herbs in the air.
But before I could further analyze the composition of the room, the woman's voice rang out again, louder this time.
"Why do you keep going outside without permission!?"
I flinched. Instinctively.
Her steps were quick. She emerged from the kitchen carrying a cup of water and a small cloth. Her eyes were slightly sharp. Her tone was high, but not shouting. More like… someone who was too worried and too tired to hide it.
"Yusha! How many times do I have to tell you!? Before going out, you have to tell me. I was worried!" she said as she set the cup down on the table. Thud! Her voice was sharp and full of pressure.
Yusha…?
I slowly looked up.
She… called me by that name. Twice.
Yusha? Who was that? …Wait.
That… was this body's name. My new name.
I opened my mouth, and the words came out on their own, almost unconsciously:
"Yes… Mom."
The atmosphere suddenly fell silent. I myself was surprised. This tongue spoke it as if it were already used to it. As if that voice had merely been asleep and had just been awakened.
She looked at me, and a subtle change crossed her face. The sharp tone from before softened. Her temples were damp with sweat, but her lips curved slightly.
"…I was just worried." She let out a breath. "You're not fully recovered yet. If you suddenly disappear again, I'll panic."
I lowered my head. "I'm sorry."
So this was… this body's mother?
My heart beat softly. Not from fear. But from a strange feeling rising within me. A sense of comfort I had never known for… I didn't know how long. Or perhaps, even my entire previous life.
She didn't look at me like a stranger. She didn't ask who I was. She didn't ask where I came from.
She scolded me.
Because she was worried.
…This is what a mother does, isn't it?
I lifted my head slightly. My eyes observed her face. Beautiful, tired, but strong. Like someone who endured not because she wasn't afraid, but because she knew there was someone she had to protect.
"I'll prepare lunch. You can sit here."
I nodded softly. Then pulled out a chair and sat down.
Funny… here I was, a small, cute child—at least a warm smile could be a bonus, not just scolding, right?
I clicked my tongue inwardly.
But when I glanced at her again, I saw her back busy in the kitchen. Her movements were deft, her hands light. There was no anger there. Only… care.
I leaned back against the chair and let my breath out slowly.
So this is what it feels like… to be scolded because someone cares.
And somehow… I felt safe.
Maybe I still didn't know where my steps would lead me. This world still held many questions. But for now… perhaps my adventure wasn't about finding ancient ruins like medieval knights once did, or challenging fate.
My adventure began here.
In this small house.
At this warm wooden dining table.
With the woman who called me by a name I had not yet known.
With someone I called… Mother.
---
The End
"He has the right to criticize, who has a heart to help." — Abraham Lincoln