The days blurred together after that.
One week became two. Two became a month. A month became three.
I stopped going to school after the second week. Told my grandmother I was sick. She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes, the way her mouth tightened, but she didn't force me to go either.
Maybe she understood. Maybe she just didn't have the energy to fight me anymore.
The school called twice. Left messages about my attendance, about making up work, and about accommodations they could provide. My grandmother took the messages, left notes on the kitchen counter that I ignored.
Eventually, they stopped calling.
I'd become a problem that solved itself by disappearing.
My room became my world. Four walls, a window I kept the curtains drawn on, and the faint smell of fabric that never quite went away. The hospital bed my grandmother had gotten, the one with railings like I was an invalid, became the center of my universe.
I'd transfer from the wheelchair to bed in the morning. Stay there until I have to use the bathroom. Transfer back. The routine was simple, predictable, safe.
The physical therapist called for the first two weeks. Reminders about my appointments, about maintaining upper body strength, about not letting atrophy set in.
I stopped answering.
She stopped calling.
My phone stayed off most of the time. When I did turn it on, the notifications were always the same. Group chats I wasn't part of anymore. Social media posts I wasn't tagged in. Life happens to other people.
Yuki posted photos with Takeshi. They're at the arcade. At the beach. At a concert. Her Instagram was a catalog of her new life, one that had no space for me in it.
I stopped looking after the first month.
Stopped caring after the second.
My mom visited once. It was a Saturday afternoon, three months after I'd stopped going to school. She knocked on my door, called my name in that soft voice she used when she was trying not to upset me.
I didn't answer.
She tried the handle. I'd locked it.
"Kenji, baby, please. Let me in. We need to talk."
I stayed silent. Stared at the ceiling.
"Your grandmother is worried. I'm worried. You can't just stay in there forever."
I could. I absolutely could.
"The school says you're going to fail. They're talking about holding you back a year. Is that what you want?"
What I wanted didn't matter anymore. What I wanted had died on that rooftop along with my legs.
She stood outside my door for ten minutes. Talking, pleading, eventually crying.
I didn't open it.
She didn't come back after that.
My grandmother brought me food three times a day. Left it outside my door, knocked twice, walked away. Sometimes I ate it. Sometimes I didn't. I was losing weight, could feel my clothes getting looser, and see my face getting hollower in the mirror when I bothered to look.
Didn't matter.
Nothing mattered.
The fourth month was when I stopped getting out of bed except for the bathroom. The wheelchair sat in the corner, unused. My muscles were atrophying; I could feel it happening, feel myself getting weaker, but I didn't care.
What was the point of maintaining strength I'd never use?
What was the point of anything?
I slept sixteen hours a day. Lay awake the other eight, staring at the ceiling, thinking about nothing and everything.
Thinking about Hiroshi Matsuda and his broken console.
About all the kids I'd hurt over the years. Their faces blurred together in my memory, indistinct and interchangeable. Victims whose names I'd never bothered to learn.
About my mom, working herself to exhaustion in ways I'd never acknowledged.
About my grandmother, who'd taken us in and gotten nothing but disappointment in return.
About Yuki's face when she'd called me pathetic. The relief in her eyes when she walked away.
About Takeshi, who'd been my best friend until I became inconvenient.
About the fall. The moment of weightlessness before impact. The brief, stupid hope that I might survive.
I had survived.
And this, this half-life, this existence in a room that smelled like dust and regret, was so much worse than dying would have been.
The fifth month was when I realized I was waiting.
Not for things to get better. They wouldn't get better. Couldn't get better.
I was waiting to die.
Just... waiting. For my body to give up. For my heart to stop. For whatever came next.
Anything would be better than this.
My grandmother must have known. Must have seen it in the way I barely ate, barely moved, barely existed.
She stood outside my door one evening, I could see her shadow under the crack, and she spoke quietly.
"Your mother asked me to put you in a hospital. A psychiatric facility. She thinks you need professional help."
I didn't respond.
"I told her no. Told her you needed time. That forcing you would make it worse." Her voice cracked. "Was I wrong? Should I have listened to her?"
Silence.
"Kenji, please. Talk to me. Let me help you."
But she couldn't help me. No one could.
Because I didn't want help.
I wanted it to be over.
She stood there for a long time. Then she walked away, her footsteps slow and heavy.
I heard her crying in the kitchen later that night.
Didn't change anything.
The sixth month came. Spring turned to summer. The heat made my room stifling, but I didn't open the window. Just lay there in the warmth, sweating, existing.
My grandmother brought me dinner one evening. Knocked twice like always.
I didn't get up to get it.
She knocked again. "Kenji? Your food's here."
I stayed in bed.
The doorknob rattled. "Kenji? I'm coming in."
She had a key. Had always had a key. Had just been respecting my privacy up until now.
The door opened.
She stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, and I saw her face clearly for the first time in weeks.
She looked old. So much older than I remembered. Her shoulders stooped, her face lined with worry, her eyes red from crying.
I'd done that to her.
"Oh, Kenji," she whispered, looking at me. At the state of me. "What have you done to yourself?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't find the energy.
She set the food on my desk; it was some kind of soup, I didn't care, and sat on the edge of my bed.
"You're killing yourself," she said quietly. "Maybe not quickly, but you are. Is that what you want?"
Was it?
Yes.
I didn't say it out loud, but she must have seen it in my face.
"Your mother's right. You need help. Real help. A hospital...."
"No."
My voice was hoarse from disuse. Barely more than a whisper.
"Then what?" Her voice rose. "You're just going to lie here until you waste away? Until you die? Is that your plan?"
It wasn't a plan. Plans required intention, goals, and hope.
I was just... waiting.
"You made mistakes," she said, and there were tears on her face now. "You hurt people. I know that. Everyone knows that. But you don't deserve this. No one deserves this."
Didn't I?
Yuki thought so. Takeshi thought so. The whole school thought so.
Maybe they were right.
My grandmother reached out, touched my hand. Hers was warm, calloused from gardening.
"If you won't get help for yourself," she said quietly, "then do it for me. Please. I can't watch you do this. I can't lose you, too."
Too. She meant my mom. Meant watching her daughter destroy herself in a different way, and now watching her grandson follow the same path.
"I'm tired, Grandma," I whispered. "I'm so tired."
"I know." She squeezed my hand. "I know you are. But you're seventeen years old. You have your whole life ahead of you. This isn't the end."
It felt like the end.
She stayed for an hour. Talked about small things. The garden. The neighbors. The weather. Normal things that felt like they belonged to a different universe.
Then she left, taking the uneaten soup with her.
That night, I dreamed about the fall for the first time in months.
The rooftop. Hiroshi's hands are on my chest. The moment of weightlessness.
But this time, when I hit the ground, I didn't wake up in the hospital.
I just kept falling.
Down and down into darkness that had no bottom.
I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat despite the heat.
My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking.
For a moment, just a moment, I felt something other than the constant numbness.
Fear.
I was afraid.
Not of dying. I'd made peace with that months ago.
I was afraid that this was it. That this room, this half-life, this endless grey existence, this was all there was. Forever.
No second chances. No redemption. No possibility of things being different.
Just this.
The fear faded quickly, replaced by the familiar numbness.
I lay back down. Stared at the ceiling.
Thought about Hiroshi again. About the look in his eyes right before he pushed me.
Rage. Desperation. The look of someone who'd been pushed too far.
I'd put that look there.
And hundreds of others over the years.
How many Hiroshis had I created? How many people had I broken?
The thought sat heavily in my chest.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to the empty room. To all of them. To everyone I'd hurt.
The words felt hollow. Meaningless.
Sorry, didn't fix anything. Didn't undo the damage. Didn't give back what I'd taken.
But it was all I had.
"I'm sorry," I said again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
I said it until the words lost meaning. Until they were just sounds. Until I fell asleep, still whispering them into the darkness.
The seventh month began.
My grandmother brought a doctor to the house. He checked my vitals, asked questions I didn't answer, and looked at me with professional concern.
"Severe depression," I heard him tell my grandmother in the hallway. "Possibly some form of PTSD from the accident and its aftermath. He needs to be in treatment. Medication at a minimum. Therapy, ideally."
"He won't go," my grandmother said. "He won't even leave his room."
"Then we need to consider involuntary commitment. For his own safety."
"Not yet. Please. Give him a little more time."
Why was she fighting for me? Why did she care?
I'd been nothing but a burden. Just like my mother had been. Two generations of disappointment are living under her roof.
She should let them take me. She should let me become someone else's problem.
But she didn't.
The doctor left. My grandmother came back to my room with pills.
"Antidepressants," she said. "The doctor prescribed them. They'll help."
"I don't want them."
"Please, Kenji. Just try. For me."
I took them because I didn't have the energy to argue.
They didn't help.
Or maybe they did, and I just couldn't tell the difference anymore. Maybe there were levels of numbness I hadn't reached yet, and the pills were stopping me from sinking deeper.
I didn't know.
Didn't care.
The days continued to blur together.
It was a Tuesday in late August when I died.
Not that I knew it was Tuesday. Or August. Or any specific time at all.
Days didn't have names anymore. Just light and dark, awake and asleep.
I'd been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Same as every day.
My grandmother had brought breakfast hours ago. Or maybe it was lunch. I hadn't eaten it.
The room was hot. Stifling. The air was thick and heavy.
I felt strange. Disconnected. Like I was floating somewhere above my body, looking down at myself.
The boy in the bed looked like a corpse already. Pale skin stretched over bones. Hollow eyes. Unwashed hair. The smell of someone who'd given up.
Was that me?
Had I really become that?
My chest felt tight. Hard to breathe.
I should probably tell someone.
Should probably call for help.
Should probably do something.
But what was the point?
This was what I'd been waiting for, wasn't it?
The end.
My eyes felt heavy. So heavy.
I let them close.
Thought about my mom. Hoped she'd be okay. Hoped she'd forgive me for giving up.
Thought about my grandmother. Hoped she'd understand. Hoped she'd know I was grateful, even if I'd never said it.
Thought about Hiroshi. Hoped he was happy in Osaka. Hoped he'd moved on, made friends, lived the life I'd almost taken from him.
Thought about all the people I'd hurt. All the damage I'd done. All the pain I'd caused.
"I'm sorry," I whispered one last time.
Then I stopped thinking.
Stopped breathing.
Stopped existing.
There was darkness.
Then there was nothing.
Then there was...
Something.
Warmth. Pressure. Muffled sounds.
Was this death? It didn't feel like death. Didn't feel like anything I'd imagined.
The pressure increased. Squeezing, pushing, pulling.
Then suddenly—light. Blinding, overwhelming light.
And cold. So cold after the warmth.
I tried to gasp, tried to understand what was happening, but all that came out was a wail. High-pitched, infant-like.
Wait.
Infant.
No. That wasn't possible. That couldn't be—
Hands lifted me. Gentle hands. I couldn't focus on them, couldn't see properly. Everything was blurry, overwhelming.
"It's a boy," a voice said. Female, exhausted, happy. Speaking a language I didn't recognize but somehow understood perfectly. "A healthy boy."
More voices. Celebration. Joy.
I was moving. Being cleaned, wrapped in something soft.
Then I was placed against something warm. Soft. I could hear a heartbeat. Steady and strong.
A face appeared above me. Blurry at first, then slowly coming into focus.
A woman. Beautiful in a way that transcended mere physical appearance. She had long, flowing hair the color of rich mahogany that fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Her face was elegant, with high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and full lips curved in an exhausted but radiant smile. But it was her eyes that caught me. Large, expressive eyes, the color of warm amber, looking down at me with such pure, unconditional love that it made something in my chest, my new, impossibly small chest, ache.
She looked tired. Pale skin sheened with sweat, dark circles under those amber eyes. But she was smiling.
At me.
"Hello, little one," she whispered, her voice soft and melodious. "I'm your mother. Your name is... what should we call you?"
A man appeared beside her. Tall, imposing even from my limited perspective. He had sharp, aristocratic features, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a straight nose that spoke of generations of nobility. His hair was dark, almost black, cut short and neat. But his eyes were what struck me most, ice blue, intelligent, piercing. The kind of eyes that missed nothing.
Yet when he looked at me, those cold eyes softened.
"Aldric," he said, his voice deep and commanding but gentle in this moment. "We agreed on Aldric, remember?"
"Mmm," the woman, my mother, murmured, touching my tiny hand with her finger. "Aldric Ashford. Second son of Heinrich Ashford, Duke of Ravenhold, and his fourth wife, Marianne."
Duke. Fourth wife. What kind of world?
A maid appeared at the bedside. She was an older woman with kind eyes and grey hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her face was lined with years of service, but her smile was genuine as she looked at me.
"The young master is beautiful, Your Grace," she said to my mother. "A blessing from the gods."
Other people filtered in and out. I caught glimpses of them through my unfocused vision.
A healer, an elderly man with a long white beard and sharp green eyes, wearing robes marked with strange symbols. He examined me with practiced efficiency, muttering about healthy lungs and good color.
Servants bringing water, clean linens, and herbs that smelled unfamiliar.
And in the corner, partially hidden by the doorway, I caught sight of other children. My siblings, I realized.
A girl, maybe seven or eight years old, with blonde hair and cold grey eyes. She watched me with obvious disdain, her pretty face twisted in a scowl.
A boy, perhaps ten, with the same dark hair as my father and similarly ice-blue eyes. He looked bored, like this was an inconvenience.
Another girl, older, maybe thirteen, with her mother's mahogany hair but harder eyes. She whispered something to the blonde girl, and they both smirked.
They hated me already.
Or hated my mother. Or hated the attention I was receiving.
The politics of a Duke's household, I realized dimly. Multiple wives, multiple children, all competing for favor.
My father, the Duke, noticed their presence and made a sharp gesture. They disappeared.
He turned back to us, his stern expression softening again as he looked at my mother.
"You did well, Marianne," he said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice. "Rest now. I'll make sure no one disturbs you."
"Stay," my mother whispered, her hand finding his. "Just for a moment. Let me see you both together."
He stayed. Sat on the edge of the bed, this powerful Duke in his fine clothes, I could see them better now, rich fabrics in deep blues and blacks, everything expensive and perfectly tailored, and looked at me with something that might have been pride.
"He has your eyes," he said to my mother.
"And your stubborn chin," she replied, smiling.
They talked quietly for a while. I couldn't follow all of it. My infant brain was struggling to process everything, exhaustion pulling at me.
But I understood enough.
This was real. This wasn't a dream or hallucination or dying vision.
I had died in that room, in my grandmother's house, seventeen years old and broken.
And I had been reborn.
Reincarnated.
Into a world that had Dukes and magic healers and multiple wives and politics, I couldn't begin to understand.
Into a body that could feel. That had working legs. That had a future.
Into a family where my father was powerful and my mother loved me, and I had siblings who already hated me.
My last thought before exhaustion claimed me was absurdly simple:
I get a second chance.
Then I slept, warm and safe in my mother's arms, in a world that was nothing like the one I'd left.
The years of childhood passed in a blur of sensation and learning.
I was Aldric Ashford now. That was my name, my identity in this new world.
The memories of Kenji Yamamoto faded to something distant and dreamlike. Sometimes I wondered if that life had been real at all, or just a nightmare I'd been born remembering.
But the emotions remained. The guilt. The regret. The bone-deep knowledge of what it felt like to hurt people and be hurt in return.
I promised myself, promised the infant version of me, promised the ghost of Kenji, that this time would be different.
This time, I would be better.
I had to be.
My mother, Marianne, was everything my birth mother hadn't been. Attentive, loving, present. She had infinite patience for my infant needs, sang me lullabies in that melodious voice, and held me close whenever I cried.
As I grew and my vision sharpened, I could see her more clearly. She was truly beautiful—that mahogany hair always styled elegantly, those amber eyes always warm when they looked at me. She wore dresses in soft colors, creams and golds, and pale blues, that complemented her delicate features. She moved with natural grace, every gesture refined but never cold.
She read to me constantly. Books about this world, its history, its magic. I absorbed everything, my adult mind in an infant body, drinking in information.
This world was called Aeternum. It had magic, real magic, not tricks or illusions. Elemental magic that lets people control fire, water, earth, and air. Combat magic that enhanced physical abilities. Healing magic. And darker things, whispered about in hushed tones. Forbidden magics.
The social structure was feudal. Kings, Dukes, Counts, Barons, Knights. My father was Duke Heinrich Ashford, ruler of the Ravenhold territory in the northern reaches of the Valdris Kingdom.
He was a busy man, often away on political business. But when he was home, he visited us.
Heinrich Ashford was intimidating even to my adult mind. Tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders and the bearing of a warrior despite his aristocratic title. His face was all sharp angles and hard lines, like it had been carved from stone. Those ice-blue eyes missed nothing, calculated everything.
But with my mother and me, he softened. Not much, he wasn't the type for overt displays of affection, but enough. A hand on my mother's shoulder. A finger touching my tiny fist. A slight smile when I gurgled at him.
"He's alert," he commented when I was about three months old, watching me track his movements across the room. "Unusually so."
"He's special," my mother said, and the love in her voice made my infant heart ache. "I can feel it."
I tried to be a normal baby. Cried when appropriate, slept when expected, and made the sounds infants made.
But I was aware. So painfully aware.
Aware of the servants who whispered about my mother being the Duke's favorite. Aware of the other children, my half-siblings, who glared at me whenever they thought no one was watching.
Aware that being the second son of the fourth but favored wife put a target on my back.
The politics were already there, even in infancy.
My oldest half-brother was Wilhelm, eighteen years old when I was born. He was from the Duke's first wife, who had died in childbirth with her second child. Wilhelm looked like a younger, crueler version of our father, same dark hair, same ice-blue eyes, same sharp features. But where Father's hardness came from duty and responsibility, Wilhelm's came from entitlement and barely contained rage. He ignored me entirely, which was probably for the best.
Then there was Katerina, sixteen, from the second wife. She had inherited her mother's blonde hair and grey eyes, along with her mother's cold beauty. She looked at me like I was an insect. Something beneath notice except when it became inconvenient.
Friedrich, fourteen, was the third wife's son. He had brown hair and hazel eyes, softer features than Wilhelm's but with the same sense of entitlement. He seemed to view me as competition, even though I was an infant.
Celestia, thirteen, was from the third wife as well, Friedrich's full sister. She had the same brown hair as her brother but prettier features. She watched me with calculation in her young eyes, like she was already plotting how to use or eliminate me.
And then there was Elise, seven, from the second wife, Katerina's younger sister. She had the same blonde hair but warmer brown eyes instead of grey. She was the only one who seemed somewhat curious about me, rather than hostile, though she kept her distance.
Finally, there was Lucian, five, from the Duke's first wife, Wilhelm's younger full brother. He was still young enough to be openly curious, coming to peek at me in my crib with wide blue eyes, though Wilhelm always pulled him away.
I had six older half-siblings.
Six people who saw me and my mother as threats to their inheritance, their status, their father's affection.
Six potential enemies before I could even walk.
My mother must have known. Must have understood the danger.
But she loved me anyway. Fiercely. Protectively.
She kept me close, rarely letting the other wives' servants near me. The Duke assigned her personal guards, loyal men who answered only to him, to protect our wing of the manor.
It should have felt safe.
It didn't.
Because I'd learned in my previous life that safety was an illusion. That power was temporary. That everything could be taken away in an instant.
But I'd also learned that I didn't want to be the person I'd been.
Didn't want to hurt people to feel strong. Didn't want to build kingdoms on fear.
This time, I would be different.
This time, I would be better.
I had to be.
Because Kenji Yamamoto had died alone in a room that smelled like dust, hated by everyone who'd known him.
And Aldric Ashford refused to meet the same end.
My first birthday came with a celebration.
The Duke threw a small banquet, "small" by noble standards, which still meant hundreds of people filling the manor's great hall.
I was dressed in tiny noble clothes, a miniature version of what my father wore, complete with the Ashford family crest embroidered on the chest. A raven in flight, clutching a sword. Our family symbol.
My mother looked radiant in a golden dress that brought out the amber in her eyes, her mahogany hair arranged in an elaborate style with jewels woven through it.
She held me on her hip as we entered the hall, and I got my first real look at the scope of my new life.
The great hall was enormous. Vaulted ceilings with chandeliers holding hundreds of candles. Tapestries depicting battles and heraldry covering the walls. Long tables laden with food, roasted meats, fresh bread, fruits I didn't recognize, and pastries that smelled incredible.
And people. So many people.
Nobles in fine clothes, their wealth displayed in every jewel and fur and expensive fabric. Knights in formal armor, standing at attention. Servants moving silently between tables. Musicians in the corner playing something elegant and forgettable.
Everyone turned to look as we entered.
I felt my mother's arms tighten around me slightly. Protective.
"Duke Heinrich Ashford," a servant announced. "Duchess Marianne Ashford. And the young lord Aldric Ashford."
My father was already there, seated at the high table. He stood as we approached, and the entire hall fell silent.
"My fourth son," he announced, his voice carrying across the space. "And second son of my beloved Marianne. May he grow strong and bring honor to the Ashford name."
Polite applause. Some of it genuine, most of it political necessity.
My other siblings were there too, seated at the high table. Wilhelm looked bored. Katerina looked disgusted. Friedrich and Celestia whispered to each other. Elise watched with mild curiosity. Lucian waved at me with childish enthusiasm before Wilhelm grabbed his hand and made him stop.
The banquet proceeded with all the formality and political maneuvering I'd expect. People came to pay respects to my father, to congratulate my mother, to coo over me in ways that felt more obligatory than genuine.
One woman in particular stood out. She was beautiful in a cold way, blonde hair, sharp features, grey eyes that matched Katerina's exactly.
The Duke's second wife. Katerina and Elise's mother. Lady Helena.
She approached with Katerina beside her, both of them wearing matching expressions of polite disinterest.
"Marianne," Lady Helena said, her voice light but somehow cutting. "How wonderful that little Aldric is thriving. One does worry about fourth sons. So rarely amount to much."
The insult was subtle but clear.
My mother smiled, unruffled. "One worries about all children, Helena. Though I'm sure your daughters will find suitable marriages eventually, despite the... challenges."
Lady Helena's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Indeed. Though I notice the Duke spends considerably more time in your wing of the manor these days. How... fortunate for you."
"The Duke's time is his own to spend as he wishes," my mother replied smoothly.
The tension was thick enough to cut.
Katerina looked at me with undisguised hatred. She was sixteen, beautiful like her mother, and clearly used to being the center of attention.
Until my mother and I had come along.
"He's small," Katerina said, her tone dismissive. "Are you sure he's healthy?"
"Perfectly healthy," my mother said, her voice still pleasant but with an edge now. "The healers confirm it daily."
"Hmm," Lady Helena said. "Well, only time will tell, I suppose. So many things can happen to young children. Accidents. Illnesses. Such tragedy when noble lines are disrupted."
It wasn't even subtle.
It was a threat.
My father materialized beside us, and both Helena and Katerina immediately shifted their demeanors.
"Is there a problem?" he asked, his voice mild but his eyes sharp.
"Not at all, my lord," Helena said, bowing slightly. "We were simply congratulating Marianne on young Aldric's first year."
"Indeed." His gaze moved between them, missing nothing. "How considerate. Though I believe your own daughters require your attention. Katerina has a music recital next week that needs preparation, does she not?"
It was a dismissal.
Helena smiled, bowed again, and retreated with Katerina in tow.
My father watched them go, then looked at my mother.
"Are you well?" he asked quietly.
"Always, when you're here," she replied.
Something passed between them. Understanding. Partnership. Maybe even love, though I wasn't sure nobles in this world married for such pedestrian reasons.
The rest of the banquet passed without incident. I was paraded around, shown off, commented on.
By the end of it, I was exhausted, and my infant body demanded sleep.
My mother carried me back to our wing, her guards following at a discreet distance.
"You did so well," she whispered as she laid me in my crib. "My perfect boy. My Aldric."
She sang me to sleep, some lullaby about ravens and moonlight.
I dreamed of Kenji. Of the rooftop. Of falling.
Woke up crying, and my mother was there immediately. Holding me. Soothing me. Chasing the nightmares away.
This life was different.
This life was better.
I just had to survive it long enough to prove I deserved it.