He returned to life with a breath too small for the weight it carried.
Air slipped into lungs that had never tasted anything before, and the sensation shocked him—thin, fragile, unfamiliar. His chest rose with all the strength of a sheet of paper trying to resist gravity. The world rushed in too quickly, too brightly, too loudly.
Tyler opened his eyes.
Light stabbed at him immediately. Not the dull hospital glow. Not the icy halo of the bridge where he froze to death. This light was gentle—filtered through curtains decorated with faded little stars. Warm sunlight washed across a wooden floor and painted the room in soft, steady gold.
His eyes—whatever strange, new things they were—struggled to adjust. The edges of his vision shimmered oddly. Colors were sharper than they should've been, as though the world had been freshly inked.
He tried to move.
His hand twitched a few millimeters and fell. His legs didn't respond at all. His neck wobbled like it had forgotten how to carry the weight of a head. No control. No strength. A prison of flesh too small for the storm inside it.
What…?
His heart pounded as he tried again—nothing. His body wasn't grown. It wasn't ready.
He was an infant.
A carriage cradled him, soft and padded, the blanket tucked carefully around his sides. Someone had placed him here with love and skill. Someone who expected him to be helpless.
Footsteps approached.
A woman's voice—warm, familiar, painfully sweet—filled the air.
"Oh—he's awake."
Melissa.
His mother.
But not the grief-stricken woman he had left behind only hours ago in his previous life. This voice was younger. Softer. Filled with hope she hadn't yet had stolen from her.
Tyler froze completely.
Melissa entered the soft band of sunlight, and his chest caved inward at the sight of her. She looked almost exactly like the memories—except brighter, gentler, unburdened by loss. When she leaned forward over the carriage, her eyes sparkled.
"There you are, sweetheart," she whispered.
The gentleness shattered him.
She lifted him—careful, practiced, confident—and the heat of her body enveloped him immediately. He felt the beat of her heart against his cheek. A sound he had once clung to in grief, at the end of her rope. But here, now—it beat strong and steady.
He tried to speak.To say I'm back.
But only a tiny, shaky breath escaped him.
Melissa smiled warmly. "Ohh, my tiny boy… did you dream something scary?"
Dream.If only.
His vision blurred, and tears spilled before he could stop them.
She panicked instantly. "No, no—don't cry. Mama's here. You're safe."
Safe.
He had died on cold concrete with no one holding him.But now—her arms wrapped around him like a promise the universe was trying to keep.
The door opened.
"Is he awake?"
Tyler's breath vanished.
Silas stepped into the room.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
His father's hair was slightly messy from washing, his shirt sleeves rolled casually up, and there was a softness in his expression that Tyler hadn't seen in years. No exhaustion. No illness. No financial strain hollowing him out.
He walked over with a small, boyish grin.
"Look at him," he murmured. "Bright-eyed already."
Tyler's tiny fingers trembled uncontrollably.
Melissa gently passed him into Silas's arms.
The world tilted.
His father—the man who died some hours ago in Tyler's old life—was breathing, warm, talking, smiling. The scent of soap and home wrapped around Tyler like a blanket.
His throat trembled.
A thin, broken cry clawed out of him.
Silas immediately panicked. "Hey—hey, what's wrong, little man? Why're you crying so much?"
Because you're alive.Because I watched you die.Because I never got to save you.
But all that came out was another desperate baby cry.
Melissa chuckled softly. "He's emotional today."
Silas rocked him gently. "It's okay. Dad's here."
The word Dad cracked Tyler open.
He cried harder.
Not infant crying—soul crying.
Silas held him closer, his warmth grounding Tyler even as his mind spiraled through grief and relief.
Melissa touched Silas's arm, her voice soft. "He just needs a minute. Hold him like that."
Tyler blinked rapidly, tears soaking into his father's shirt.
Silas whispered, "It's okay. Dad's right here."
The phrase hit him so hard he almost lost consciousness.
A voice echoed from the hallway:
"Did I hear crying? Move aside, let me see him."
Footsteps—slower than the others, firm and steady.
Grandma.
Alive.
Viola appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. The lines on her face were lighter than he remembered; her shoulders straighter. Death had not touched her here—not yet.
She approached, her voice warm and familiar. "Give him to me."
Silas carefully transferred Tyler into her arms.
Tyler stared at her.At the woman whose death had broken the household in his first life.At the woman he had mourned for years.
Grandma stroked his cheek with a tenderness that hollowed him out.
"Why so many tears, little darling?" she whispered.
His vision blurred again.
Silas chuckled from beside her. "See? Mom's touch can calm anyone."
Tyler's breath hitched. He clung to her apron weakly, desperate not to lose her again.
She hummed softly—that lullaby, the one she used to hum when he was sick as a child. The sound hit him with the force of memory, and for a moment he wanted to scream at the universe for giving him this impossible mercy.
Before he could drown in it, loud voices burst into the room.
"Brother! Is he awake? Move aside!"
"Don't block me—I wanna see him first!"
His uncles.
Richard and Steven barreled in like two excited storms, nearly tripping over each other. Both unmarried. Both still living at home. Both untouched by the conflict that would tear the family apart years later.
They leaned over him with dumb, affectionate grins.
"Oh! Look at him—he's staring!""He recognizes me! I told you I'm his favorite—!"
"Out," Grandma said calmly.
Both uncles immediately stepped back, chastened.
Tyler would've laughed if he could.
Instead his breath trembled, settling into something smaller, fragile, hopeful.
Melissa returned to his side. "He's calming down a bit."
"See?" Silas said proudly. "He just needed family."
Tyler's tears slowed.
His heartbeat steadied.
The world softened around the edges.
Wrapped in warmth, surrounded by people he had once lost, he felt sleep crawl up his tiny body like a tide.
His last thought before drifting off:
This time, I won't fail any of you.
When Tyler woke again, the room had settled into a slower rhythm. Afternoon sunlight drifted lazily across the floor, catching dust motes that floated like tiny lanterns. The clatter from the kitchen had softened into background warmth—pans settling, water boiling, spoons tapping gently.
Voices drifted through the house, warm and familiar.
Silas humming under his breath.Melissa folding laundry near the window.Grandma shuffling between rooms with her steady footsteps.
This wasn't the world he died in.This was life before it all broke.
He was placed on a blanket laid across the living room floor—a small star-patterned mat with a knitted pillow under his head. He could barely move, but his mind drank in every detail: the soft light from the lamp, the wooden shelves lined with mismatched mugs, the faint scent of rice cooking.
It was so ordinary it hurt.
Steven peeked into the room first, his head poking into view upside-down from over the back of the sofa.
"Brother said he woke up again—oh! Look at him. He's staring at me."
"He stares at everyone," Richard muttered as he stepped in behind him.
"That's not true. He stares at me the most."
"No, he doesn't."
"Yes, he does."
Their arguing was fond, harmless, stupid in the way only siblings could manage.
Tyler watched them with his too-adult mind trapped inside a body too small to properly express anything. Their presence—both of them here, still family, still brothers—filled him with something heavy and warm.
Steven tried to make a silly face. Richard shook a rattle gently beside him.
Tyler blinked at them.
Both uncles gasped dramatically.
"He blinked at ME.""No—ME."
"Out," Grandma said without even raising her voice.
Both men stepped back instantly.
Tyler would have laughed if his body allowed it.
Grandma knelt beside him, adjusting his little cap. She brushed her fingers across his cheek.
"There," she said softly, "look at those eyes. Such pretty blue eyes… I've never seen anything like them."
Her admiration pierced him.
Because suddenly the memory crashed back through him:
The deal.The cathedral.The chains.The priest's voice: "Your eyes will carry the mark."
A cold pulse ran through him.
Slowly, carefully, he tilted his head—clumsy infant movements—toward the far side of the room.
There, mounted crooked on the wall above a shelf, was an old rectangular mirror.
The reflection was faint from this distance, but clear enough.
Tyler froze.
His eyes—his newborn eyes—were not normal.
They were breathtaking.
A vivid, electric blue, deeper than the ocean, lighter than sapphire. And in the center—surrounding the pupil—a swirl of silver dust shimmered. Not static silver. Moving silver. Each blink stirred the particles like someone brushing a fingertip through starlight.
They glowed faintly, catching sunlight in a way no human eye could.
Magnificent. Beautiful. Terrifying.
He couldn't look away.
So the chains hadn't been symbolic. The transformation hadn't been metaphorical.
The power lived in his eyes.
And if it lived there—
Could he use it?
His heart quickened. He scanned the room for a test subject.
Richard was closest, still kneeling on the rug, messing with the rattle.
Tyler fixed his gaze on him.
Just a small push. A whisper of power. One passive ability—see his thoughts, hear a fragment, anything.
He focused.
Nothing.
He tried again—sharper intent, deeper concentration, pushing into the silver whirl in his eyes.
Still nothing.
He narrowed his gaze, straining, trying to reach out and touch something in Richard's mind.
At first the silver spark in his iris brightened.
Then—
Everything blurred.
His eyes burned—sharp, tearing pain, as if someone had poured dust beneath his eyelids. His vision fogged instantly. Water flooded his eyes, hot and uncontrollable.
He winced, tiny body stiffening.
Viola noticed first.
"Oh! Look at his eyes—they're watering so much!"
Melissa rushed over, dropping the laundry. "Again? That's the third time today!"
Richard scrambled closer, guilt written all over his face. "Did I do something? Did the rattle hurt him? Brother—look at him, his eyes are getting red!"
Silas came to his side immediately, scooping him into his arms. "He can't even focus. Poor little guy… he must be uncomfortable."
Tyler blinked rapidly, but the blur only worsened. The strain from the failed attempt crackled behind his eyes—like static. Too much. Too early.
He wasn't ready. His body wasn't ready. The power wasn't ready.
And he had just learned the edge of its first flaw:
His eyes were both weapon and weakness. If they strained, everything collapsed.
Grandma placed a steady hand on Silas's arm. "We're taking him to the clinic today. Immediately. No more waiting."
Melissa nodded tightly, brushing a tear from Tyler's cheek. "Yes. Dust or no dust—this isn't normal."
Normal.
If only they knew.
Tyler allowed Melissa to cradle him, hiding his panic behind ordinary infant tears. It was easier to let them assume discomfort than admit he'd just tried to pierce a human mind from a newborn body.
Silas pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "Don't worry, little one. Dad's here. We'll take care of you."
Tyler's breath trembled at the word Dad, but his crying eased.
Because for the first time since his rebirth—
He felt grateful for his weakness.
His power was hidden. His strange eyes could be explained away for now. His family didn't suspect a thing.
And until he understood what he was capable of—
He didn't want them to.
The afternoon slipped forward with gentle urgency.
Melissa packed a small bag. Viola gathered their coats. Silas held Tyler securely against his chest, murmuring calming words. The uncles argued over who would watch the house, both pretending they weren't worried.
As the family prepared to leave, Tyler's eyelids grew heavy again.
His last thought before drifting into sleep:
I need to grow stronger…but slowly. Quietly. So I never lose this home again.