When I first opened my eyes again in this world, I was wrapped in soft wool and warm arms. The woman holding me smelled like earth and soap and freshly baked bread. She had gentle eyes and a tired smile—like she'd lived a hard life but still chose kindness every day.

  The villagers called her Lisa.

  And beside her, always standing like a protective oak tree, was Harold. My new dad, apparently. Broad-shouldered, big hands, bearded face like a walking tree stump. He didn’t speak much, but when he laughed, the whole house vibrated. Solid guy.

  Now that I’ve had a week in this new infant body—yeah, I’m keeping track—I’ve started to get the lay of the land.

  First thing? This village was huge. Not a city, but not some tiny hut in the middle of nowhere either. Neatly lined homes, kids running barefoot through the fields, old men gossiping on porches like they had nothing better to do. And the fields… gods. Endless rows of crops—wheat, mostly—glowing like golden paint under the sun. Farmers worked with steady rhythm, chatting and smiling like life was simple and good.

  My house? Massive. Definitely the biggest in the village. No joke. Two floors, wide porch, stone chimney, even a fenced yard. Clearly, we were kind of a big deal here. Which, naturally, I’m taking full credit for.

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  Clearly, they sensed the greatness in their one-week-old adopted daughter. Obviously.

  I spent most days wrapped to Lisa’s chest in a sling as she walked around the fields or worked in the kitchen. I couldn't talk, obviously, but my ears were open and brain on overdrive. The language was completely new, but patterns were forming. Sounds, tones, gestures—I was decoding it faster than I expected.

  One week old and already bilingual?

  Somebody hand me a baby genius award.

  Of course, I tried to test the fantasy genre requirements. You know, raise my tiny hand, focus real hard, mutter something dramatic like “Flame Burst.”

  Nothing.

  I tried blinking with intent. Nothing.

  Staring at objects to see if they’d levitate? Still nothing.

  Only thing that moved was my diaper, and not in a magical way.

  And don’t get me started on the cows.

  We had three. Big, fluffy, suspiciously aware. One of them, a brown-and-white beast I’ve named Judgy, kept locking eyes with me. Like it knew.

  One morning, I swear it blinked at me. Once. Slowly. Menacingly.

  Cursed cows. I’m watching them back.

  Still, despite the lack of fireballs or sword-swinging drama, I was starting to love it here. The air smelled of earth and wood smoke. Every meal was warm. Every night, Lisa hummed while rocking me to sleep, and Harold would peek in with a goofy grin like I was some miracle.

  Honestly? Maybe I was.

  Not the chosen-one, prophecy-type miracle.

  Just… a second chance.

  I wasn’t ready to give up the hope of magic. Not yet. But even if this world turned out to be all wheat and weird cows… I’d make it work. Because for the first time in a long, long while—maybe even the first time ever—I felt safe.

  And I had a feeling that was only the beginning.