How long had I been in this world? Three years. Three years that, somehow, I had enjoyed.
But what I didn't know, and what had always sparked my curiosity, was that birthdays weren't celebrated here.
And I didn't know if that was coincidence, tradition… or simply the void following me from my previous life.
So important... Of course, in my previous life, after the fire, nobody cared. Not even me. We were too many children and far too little budget. The orphanage didn't celebrate individual dates; there was only one communal cake every three months for "the birthday quarter."
And yet, every October 14th, the sky seemed to want to remind me of the moment I stopped being LIGHT... And the rain, which fell every October 14th without fail, was the only time I could open up without stumbling over it.
Now I was three years old again. A small body that sometimes tripped over its own feet and had to strengthen itself again. That, somehow, made me glad: I still had possibilities to improve on MY own.
But the question lingered. If I didn't voice it, I would drown in it. So I did the only thing a child does when they know nothing of the world: I went to ask. Something basic, yes, but easier said than done.
My mother was in the kitchen, cutting vegetables. I approached carefully, staying at the edge of the threshold, just watching her.
"Mom..."
The word came out clumsy, strange, but… I was barely three years old. I supposed it was normal. Still, I'd been saying it for a long time, and it still felt borrowed.
I noticed how Zenith startled slightly. I don't blame her; sometimes I tend to be invisible because of my damned inability to feel.
But then she turned and looked at me with that smile that broke my heart every time I saw it, like a sensation I still can't explain, not even when analyzing it.
"Son... What's wrong?"
Nothing happened. Everything happened… I didn't know how to explain it.
"I... —the words got stuck—. I was wondering if… if here, each year, the birth is celebrated…"
I tried to sound childlike, curious, like a three-year-old asking about the world. It was harder than I thought. Eighteen years of emptiness don't fade easily.
"Oh, little one... —she knelt in front of me—. Yes, of course they're celebrated. Though I wish they never came."
She picked me up with the unsettling ease of a mother, as if I weighed nothing.
"There are three important dates: at five years old, at ten, and at fifteen, when you officially come of age. You see why I don't want them to come? —she laughed softly—. I want to be able to hold them like this a little longer."
I listened to her.
I understood her.
And yet, something inside me ached.
"You are my precious son."
My mother's voice appeared again. It always did, in the worst moments… or the best. I couldn't tell anymore.
"At five? —I repeated, processing—. And it's not celebrated every year?"
"Well, some do, but the big celebrations are those three. —She set me down on the ground and ruffled my hair—. Why the question, little one? Eager to grow up?"
No. Quite the opposite.
"Just… curious."
Zenith went back to the vegetables.
"You still have two years until your first celebration. Don't think about that yet."
But I was already thinking about it.
I nodded and left the kitchen.
Night fell quickly.
I went out to the garden when night fell.
"If only I could start over."
Those were my last words before the truck. Before the impact. Before the elements decided to save everyone but me.
And now I was here, sometimes without feeling I deserved it. Like an impostor in a life that someone else might have enjoyed more. I didn't save that girl just to save her; I also wanted to save myself, to close the cycle. The "end" in the programming was the most selfish act possible… and also the most human.
Human?
I let out a light sigh of irony.
I closed my eyes and let myself remember.
My last birthday with my parents. I was eight years old.
Mom had worked extra hours for weeks to buy me that stuffed animal. I knew because I heard her talking to Dad one night, when they thought I was asleep.
"It'll be worth it," she said. "Seeing his little face when he opens it."
But when I opened it, I only saw an ugly stuffed animal. Poorly sewn, with one eye bigger than the other. And I pretended I loved it because I didn't want to break her heart.
I still remember her hugging me, happy to see me happy.
And me, smiling like a liar.
A year later they were dead, and that ugly stuffed animal burned with them. I never got to tell them that, actually, I liked it. That I treasured it, not for what it was, but for what it meant.
That I'm sorry.
In my previous life I was incredible. I had abilities others didn't have. I saw things that anyone else would take ten times longer to notice. I could control the four elements as extensions of my will.
But I was never me. I was Analysis. That thing that thought for me, that moved my body before I could decide, that turned me into a puppet of my own superhuman instincts.
Here is different.
Analysis is still with me, but it no longer has control. Now it's just a file. A silent library where what I learn, what I discover, is stored. I think first, then it archives. Not the other way around.
It's like someone giving you the answer, or you solving it yourself and then writing it down so you don't forget.
I lost my connection to the elements. At first I regretted it. They were my only friends after the fire. But now… now I'm grateful.
Because when I learned healing magic with Zenith, I cried. Those were my tears. The knowledge was archived afterward, yes, but the achievement…
It was mine.
For the first time in decades, I wasn't a spectator of my own existence.
"You have to live, do you understand? Live completely, not just exist."
Dad.
I'm sorry. In my previous life I only existed. I protected the weak as Mom taught me, but I forgot your promise. I forgot how to live.
This time will be different.
This time, when my birthday comes at five years old, I won't pretend. I won't let the void swallow me.
This time, when Zenith hugs me, I'll return the embrace with all the strength this small body has.
Because this time I'm not just existing.
I'm living.
Or at least, I'm learning how.
I looked once more at the strange stars of this new world, and for the first time in three years, I smiled.
It wasn't a complete smile. There were still cracks, still shadows.
But it was genuine.
And that, for now, was enough.