Warm light filtered through a mullioned window, spilling across the pale blue walls of the nursery. Dust motes drifted lazily in the morning sun, rising and falling in slow rhythm with the soft creak of the house as it woke to another july day. Somewhere outside, a rooster crowed, and the faint scent of fresh bread and hearth smoke drifted through the cracks of the old timber walls.
On the small bed by the wall, a boy stirred.
Johnathan Carpenter blinked blearily, the fuzziness of sleep still clinging to his young mind. For a moment, he knew nothing at all, only warmth, softness, and the muffled sound of footsteps somewhere below. Then, without warning, a thought slipped into his head. Spring. He knew it was spring. The light, the smell, the sound of dripping water from thawed eaves, he recognized it all.
Then another thought followed. Wait… how do I know that?
And then, how am I thinking like this?
Confusion built, pressing against the limits of his tiny body until his mind buckled. A sharp cry tore from his throat, instinctive, panicked, wordless. Tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks as the floodgates opened. A lifetime, memories, impressions, the texture of asphalt beneath shoes, the hum of an engine, the glow of a computer screen, poured into a brain too small to bear it.
And within a minute the room's door burst open.
A woman hurried inside, skirts whispering against the floorboards. She was tall and graceful, with chestnut hair tied back in a loose braid, and eyes the color of summer leaves. Her face, unlined, gentle, softened as she leaned over the cradle.
"Oh, my sweet John, " she murmured, voice rich with tenderness and concern. "What troubles you so? Are you dirty? Hungry?"
The sight of her struck him like a lightning bolt. Memories, fragmentary, fragile, rose from the murk of his mind. Martha Carpenter. My mother.
The name fit, like a key slipping into place. The crying faltered. With a trembling lip, he reached toward her.
"There now, " she said softly, misunderstanding the gesture as any mother would. "You want to go out, don't you? Come then, we'll get you some fresh air."
She wrapped him in a tiny woolen coat, the coarse fabric scratchy against his neck, then lifted him up with effortless grace. As she turned toward the door, he caught his first real look at the room. The plaster walls were painted a faded blue, worn in spots where years of candle smoke had left pale smudges. A red woven rug lay across the wide pine boards, and a small hearth crouched against the far wall with last night's embers still faintly glowing. A window draped with gray homespun cloth let in thin shafts of sunlight.
It's… beautiful, he thought, feeling a strange warmth stir in his chest. Simple, but beautiful.
Then came the strange dissonance again. Johnathan, he reminded himself, not Steven. Yet the name Steven lingered like an echo in a long hallway, his real name, or the name of someone he used to be.
The house creaked as his mother carried him through a narrow hall lined with portraits. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and wool, clean but lived in. As they stepped outside, sunlight spilled over them both.
Fields stretched in every direction, rolling waves of young wheat glimmering green and gold in the breeze. The air was crisp, alive with the chirping of sparrows and the lowing of cattle in the distance.
John's small body went still, eyes wide in wonder.
Martha laughed lightly. "Ah, I see the sight of the fields soothes you at last. Praise heaven, another few minutes of that crying and I daresay the whole estate would have gone mad."
If he'd been old enough to speak, he might have protested. As it was, he only gurgled faintly, caught between indignation and awe.
She sat down on a wooden bench by the porch and settled him in her lap. The scent of linen and lavender soap filled his nose. Slowly, the panic that had clouded his mind began to fade.
All right, he thought. Think. Breathe.
Bits and pieces of his past life began to arrange themselves. He had died, somewhere in Texas, if memory served, and met… someone, something. A being of light that had promised him a second chance. Then, darkness, and this.
He looked down at his tiny hands, at the soft skin and clumsy fingers. I'm three years old, he realized. And alive again.
His mind began to wander through what little he knew of this world. He remembered being called Johnathan Carpenter, living with his mother and grandfather on a family farm. The world around him was simpler, quieter, wood, wool, and iron instead of glass and steel.
But there was something else, his memory. It was too clear, too complete. Every lesson, every book, every half-read article from his old life stood sharp in his mind. Facts about physics, chemistry, history, all of it filed neatly away like pages in a library. His mind was far too full for a child's skull.
Martha eventually rose and left him on the porch while she went inside to see to the midday meal. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long golden shadows across the fields. The sky deepened into a warm gradient of orange and crimson, and the rhythmic clop of hooves echoed in the distance.
John turned his head toward the sound. A rider approached, galloping up the dirt lane. Within moments, the figure drew close enough to make out: a tall man astride a black stallion, his coat a deep forest green trimmed in brass, his tricorn hat shadowing a head of neatly kept gray hair.
When the man dismounted, he handed the reins to a closeby farmhand and turned toward the porch. His face broke into a grin at the sight of the boy.
"Johnathan!" he boomed, voice warm and booming, the sort that could fill a hall without effort.
John giggled despite himself.
William Carpenter, his grandfather, his mother's father, bounded up the steps with surprising energy for his years and scooped the boy into his arms.
"What are you doing out here alone, eh? Where's that daughter of mine?" he said, tossing John gently upward and catching him again.
John laughed, and the old man chuckled in reply. "Ah, there's that smile. Come then, let's find your mother."
They entered the main hall, where candles flickered against whitewashed walls. The long oak table was set for supper. Martha stood at its head, overseeing a young serving girl, Susan, who carried in a platter with a roast bird glistening in its juices.
"Ah, Father, " Martha said, turning toward them with a smile. "You've brought John just in time. Sit, both of you, dinner's nearly ready."
William set the boy into a high-backed chair fitted with cushions and poured himself a generous helping of brandy before taking his seat.
"So, " Martha began, ladling stew into bowls, "any news from Philadelphia? Has the war worsened?"
Her father sighed through his nose. "Aye, the French are still up to their mischief in the Ohio country. Building forts, stirring up the tribes. Word is a young Virginian Colonel has made a name for himself, though whether it'll last, heaven only knows." He took a long drink. "If this drags on, it'll either save these colonies or ruin them. Still, the King's men press on."
John blinked. The words stirred his buried memories like a stone cast into still water. French forts… Ohio… 1754.
So that's it, he realized. The French and Indian War has just begun. I'm in colonial America, Pennsylvania, most likely.
His mother fed him spoonfuls of soup between snatches of conversation. He listened quietly, content to let their voices wash over him. They're good people, he thought. Kind. I owe them that much.
A small idea began to form in his mind, a childish impulse to give something back. His young tongue stumbled through meaningless sounds at first, and the adults paid him little attention. But then, clearer this time, he managed a word.
"Maa… tah."
The room froze. Martha's eyes widened; then she burst into delighted laughter.
"Father! Did you hear him? He said my name, he said Martha!"
William rose, beaming. "Aye, I heard, I heard!" He leaned close, grinning down at the boy. "Now, let's see if you can say Will. Go on, lad, Will."
John only babbled in reply, and the old man laughed, clapping his hands in defeat.
"Ah well, " he said with a fond smile, "one miracle per evening, I suppose."
Dinner wound down with laughter and gentle talk. Later, Martha carried her son upstairs and tucked him into bed. Candlelight flickered against the ceiling as she kissed his forehead and whispered goodnight.
When she was gone, John stared up at the dark rafters, the old house creaking softly around him. The wind outside smelled of rain and new growth.
A new life, he thought. A new chance.
He turned over, letting sleep creep in like a tide.
This time, I'll live it right.