He woke underwater, in depths where no hint of life existed. The darkness was warm and safe. James floated in warm liquid, surrounded by steady, rhythmic thumping that formed a constant background noise. Sometimes he felt pressure, gentle pushes and movements that rocked him like waves. The sound was muffled but constant, a whooshing, pulsing symphony that had become his entire world.
Where am I?
The thoughts came slowly, like surfacing from deep water. His mind felt strange, fragmented. He knew things but couldn't grasp them fully yet. Like trying to hold water in cupped hands.
Then the walls began closing in.
Pressure. Crushing, relentless pressure from every direction. The safe darkness became a prison, squeezing him, forcing him forward into a space too small for his body. He tried to resist, tried to remain in the warmth, but something far stronger than himself was pushing him out. Terror gripped him.
I'm going to die again. This time, by being crushed to death.
What's happening to me?
The pressure intensified. His world tilted, shifted, turned upside down. He felt himself moving, being forced through a passage that felt impossible to navigate. The sound changed, the muffled whooshing became louder, more chaotic. New sounds leaked in from somewhere beyond his rapidly squeezing prison.
Then came the cold.
It hit him like a physical blow. Air touched skin that had only known warm fluid. Light stabbed at eyes that had only experienced gentle darkness. And the noise, chaos, voices, and sounds that made no sense crashed over him like a wave.
He tried to scream. What emerged was a thin, wailing cry that sounded nothing like his voice should sound.
This isn't right. This isn't my voice. What's wrong with me?
Rough hands lifted him. Giant faces peered down, speaking in sounds that meant nothing.
James tried to move his arms, his legs, anything. His body wouldn't obey. The limbs that responded were wrong, too small, too weak, moving in jerky motions he couldn't control, flailing wildly.
I'm a baby. Oh god, I'm a baby.
The realization crashed over him as one of the giant faces cleaned him with gentle but efficient movements. This wasn't some strange dream or hallucination. He had been born. Again.
But how did he know that? How did he understand what birth was, what being a baby meant?
The memories started returning in pieces. A previous life, but viewing it felt like looking at old photographs through cloudy water. Some images were crystal clear; he could see his hands typing on something flat and glowing. He remembered the taste of something sweet and cold, the feeling of fabric against older, larger skin.
But other parts were simply... gone. He knew he loved walking somewhere beautiful, somewhere that made him feel peaceful. He could almost taste the emotion, the peace it had given him. But when he tried to picture the place, there was nothing. Just an aching emptiness where the memory should have been.
The bead. The thought came from nowhere, but it felt important. Some kind of small, bright object that had... done something to him? Saved him? He couldn't remember what it looked like or where he'd encountered it, but he knew it was connected to why he could remember anything at all.
"She's gone, Chen." The words meant nothing to James, but the tone carried exhaustion and sorrow. The middle-aged woman holding him was speaking to an older man.
James looked at the man's face and felt something unexpected. Kindness. Real, deep kindness that seemed to shine from tired eyes. The old man stepped closer and held out weathered hands.
"Let me see him," the man said gently.
"She said his name was Yang," the woman continued. "Left this with him." She held up a small cloth bundle. "And then she was gone before I could even think of doing anything to save her."
I was alone. The knowledge hit him like cold water. Someone had died giving birth to him.
The old man, Chen took James, now Yang, in his arms. Thin but steady. "Hello, little Yang," he whispered. "Don't worry. Grandfather Chen is here now."
James tried to respond, to somehow communicate that he understood more than a newborn should. But his infant vocal cords could only manage soft mewling sounds. His frustration was immense, an adult mind trapped in a body that couldn't perform any task adults took for granted.
I can't even control when I pee.
The indignity was crushing. But Chen just held him close, humming something soft and wordless while James fought against the limitations of his new body.
Over the following days, James' fragmented memories slowly organized themselves into something more coherent. He had lived before, in a world of metal and glass where towers touched clouds, where thousands flew in giant metal contraptions. He remembered the sensation of sitting in something that moved without walking, a car, his mind supplied the word, though he couldn't quite picture what one looked like anymore.
But the details were slipping away even as he tried to hold them. Like trying to remember a dream after waking, the harder he grasped, the faster they faded. Only the emotions remained clear. The taste of foods he couldn't name. The warmth of... someone. He'd loved someone, cared about someone, but their face was completely gone.
The bead saved some things but not others, James realized. It preserved what it could, but not everything made it through. The pieces that dispersed before the bead appeared weren't recovered. My memory is patchy. He remembered the bead remade him, but like a puzzle with missing pieces. You could still know what the image was supposed to be, but the incompleteness was obvious.
He mourned those lost memories even as he felt grateful for what remained. At least he knew he'd lived before. At least he retained the capacity for complex thought, even if he couldn't access all his previous experiences.