(Author
Some parts of the story are in Spanish, but the whole story is in English)
Chapter 3
Slow pacing, vivid details
Warmth surrounded him before anything else did.
Not the blinding celestial warmth from the goddess — this was gentler, softer. Human warmth. The warmth of skin against skin, of hands cradling him, of breath brushing over a tiny newborn face.
He floated upward into consciousness like a leaf rising through water.
Sound came next.
Muffled at first. Then clearer.
A woman's voice — exhausted but overflowing with emotion.
"Mi bebé… míralo, mi amor… tan hermoso…"
Another voice, deeper and unsteady from nerves:
"Está bien… gracias a Dios. Está bien."
John opened his eyes — or rather, his new eyes — and the world appeared in blurry shapes and colors. Everything felt enormous, impossibly bright. His tiny chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.
A hospital room.
White curtains swayed in a warm Caribbean breeze. Sunlight poured through the windows, carrying with it the distant hum of Santo Domingo — car horns, the rhythm of motorcycles, conversations spilling from hallway to hallway.
His new mother held him against her chest.
She had deep brown skin, dark curly hair plastered slightly to her forehead from the effort of childbirth. Her eyes — tired but bright — glistened with tears as she touched his cheek with trembling fingers.
"Bienvenido, mi cielo," she whispered, voice cracking. "Mi pequeño John."
The name struck him.
A familiar echo in an unfamiliar body.
The goddess had kept his name.
A bridge between two lives.
His new father hovered beside the bed, one hand on her shoulder, the other reaching out — hesitant at first — to touch the baby's tiny hand.
"He agarró mi dedo," the father breathed, smiling despite himself. "Mira eso… tan fuerte."
John felt the man's finger wrap around his. It was instinct, but the warmth of that contact hit something deep in him. This was real. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't the void between worlds.
He was alive again.
A nurse walked over, adjusting the swaddling blanket around him. Her badge read Clínica Nueva Esperanza. She checked his vitals with practiced ease.
"Recién nacido, pero con buen color," she said. "Healthy little boy."
She scribbled something on a clipboard, then smiled down at him.
"Welcome to Santo Domingo, pequeño."
Santo Domingo.
He had never been here in his original life, but somehow it already felt like a promise — the beginning of a story the goddess believed he was meant to live.
He blinked slowly, fighting to keep his eyes open. His newborn body demanded sleep, but his old mind — heavy, foggy, drifting in and out — tried to absorb every detail.
The room.
His parents.
The warm tropical air.
The muffled sound of bachata drifting faintly from somewhere outside the hospital.
His father leaned closer, whispering:
"John… vamos a cuidarte bien. Tú vas a tener una vida hermosa."
A life.
Yes.
He had another chance.
His eyelids grew heavier, the world around him softening into hazy shapes again. Before sleep pulled him under entirely, he felt his mother gently kiss the top of his tiny head.
"Duérmete, mi niño," she murmured.
And for the first time in two lifetimes, John felt at peace.
As he drifted into sleep, a faint memory—almost a dream—brushed the edges of his mind: the goddess's voice.
"Grow strong. The world will need you."