Chapter 2 — First Days
The days that followed settled into a rhythm far quicker than Arin had expected.
He learned early that time moved differently now. Nights blurred into mornings, and mornings into afternoons, marked less by clocks than by routines: voices, light, the gentle shift of being carried from one place to another. The room from his first moments was replaced by others, warmer and more familiar, filled with the quiet sounds of a lived-in home rather than the sterile hum of machines.
His parents spoke often around him.
At first, their words were only sound tone and intent rather than meaning but repetition did its work. His mother's voice was the one he heard most, steady and attentive, narrating small tasks as if he could already understand them. His father's voice came and went with more variation, sometimes calm and conversational, sometimes tired, sometimes edged with focus when he spoke about work.
"Careful," his mother said one morning, adjusting the blanket around him. "He's watching you again."
His father glanced down at him, pausing mid-motion. "You're right," he said after a moment. "He does that a lot."
Arin did not look away.
Watching came easily to him.
From his place in his mother's arms or resting nearby, he took in everything he could. The house itself was modest but well-kept, with wide windows and open space that felt deliberately chosen. There were signs of travel boots by the door, jackets that smelled faintly of forest air, equipment stored neatly but within reach.
And there were Pokémon.
They were never treated as novelties.
A Starly returned often, perching on the railing outside or hopping along the fence when the windows were open. A Bidoof wandered through the yard one afternoon, gnawing absentmindedly at a fallen branch until it was gently shooed away. Once, a Shinx accompanied his father home, padding inside with cautious curiosity before settling near the doorway, its tail flicking as it observed the unfamiliar space.
Arin watched them all with quiet focus.
Not with the distant excitement he remembered from his old life, but with something steadier. He recognized patterns in their behavior without thinking about it how the Starly always positioned itself with an escape route, how the Bidoof froze before retreating, how the Shinx's ears twitched at unfamiliar sounds before it relaxed.
This isn't new, he realized.
This is normal here.
The thought did not unsettle him. It grounded him.
His mother noticed his attention more than once. "He's very alert," she remarked as she carried him past the window. "Most babies don't track movement like that."
His father hummed in agreement. "Maybe he just likes watching."
Maybe, Arin thought.
Or maybe I know what I'm looking at.
He tested himself quietly over the next few days. When a Pokémon made a sound outside, he anticipated where it would appear. When his father mentioned work in passing, he listened for familiar terms routes, patrols, injured Pokémon being brought in temporarily. When his mother adjusted her grip before he became uncomfortable, he learned the rhythm of her movements and began to expect them.
Nothing surprised him.
Nothing faded.
His memories remained intact, not as something intrusive, but as a constant background presence. He did not feel the need to analyze them yet. There was time for that later. For now, it was enough to know that he hadn't lost himself in the transition.
One afternoon, his father lifted him carefully and held him closer to the window than usual. Outside, the Starly had returned, hopping along the ledge with familiar confidence.
"See that?" his father said, not expecting an answer. "It's been coming back every day."
The Starly chirped, tilting its head.
Arin focused on it, and for a brief moment, the bird met his gaze directly.
There was no sudden connection, no flash of understanding but something passed between them all the same. Recognition, perhaps. Curiosity mirrored on both sides.
The Starly fluttered its wings once before settling again.
His father noticed. "Huh," he murmured. "That's interesting."
His mother laughed softly. "You say that like it's unusual."
"It is," he replied. "A little."
Arin relaxed, letting the moment pass.
He wasn't meant to act yet. He understood that instinctively. This wasn't a world that rewarded rushing forward or forcing change. Pokémon responded to patience, to consistency, to presence.
He could wait.
As evening settled and the house grew quieter, his mother laid him down gently, brushing a hand over his hair before stepping back. The sounds of conversation drifted from the other room, low and familiar, and somewhere outside, a Pokémon cried into the dusk.
Arin stared up at the ceiling, listening.
This was his world now not as a spectator, not as a visitor, but as someone who would grow within it. The thought carried weight, but not pressure.
For now, it was enough to watch, to learn, and to exist.
The journey could wait.