Echoes of light

“How long have I been drifting in this void?”

The question echoes through my mind, swallowed up by the endless darkness around me. Time has lost all meaning—if time even exists here. I feel like I’ve been caught in an eternal limbo, my thoughts drifting through the abyss, scattered and fragmented, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.

“Why did Yuui give me a chance?”

I try to hold onto the memory of her, but it’s like grasping mist. Her face, her voice—everything feels distant, like a dream fading into oblivion. My mind struggles to piece together fragments of what I’ve lost. Then, out of the darkness, I see it—a faint glimmer, far off, flickering like a distant star.

“What is that light? A star?”

At first, it’s barely visible, just a pinprick in the endless void, but it grows stronger, cutting through the oppressive shadows. Warmth begins to seep into me, a sensation I hadn’t even realized I missed. My body aches for it, yearns for it.

And then, I hear it—a sound. Faint, garbled, like it’s coming from far away, muffled by the dark.

“What is that noise?”

The sounds grow louder, clearer, and there’s something familiar in them. They’re calling to me, pulling me closer. I can’t make out the words, but there’s a sense of urgency, something real and alive just beyond my reach. The warmth spreads, flooding through me, dragging me out of the darkness and into blinding light.

“***** ***** *******”(“...baby is out! Baby is out!”)

The words ring out in the light, strange and distorted. I can barely make sense of them, but they’re filled with excitement, joy, like a distant echo from a world I once knew.

“Why is my vision so blurry? Why do my eyes hurt?”

I try to blink, but my eyelids feel heavy, my vision hazy. The brightness stings, overwhelming after the endless black void.

Everything around me is a blur, shapes and colors swirling together. I can’t move. My body feels too small, too weak, like I’ve been reshaped into something fragile.

And then I hear it.

"Waaah! Waaah!"

A cry splits the air—loud, sharp, and piercing. But it isn’t mine. It’s coming from somewhere nearby, echoing around me like a warning bell. I hear voices—softer, comforting, speaking in hurried, excited tones.

“**** **** **** *** ****”(“Both are healthy, no need to worry,” )

Their words drift through the haze, and though I can’t fully understand them, there’s something reassuring in their tone. I’m not alone anymore. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I feel something real—something solid. Warm hands cradle me, gentle and careful, wrapping me in softness.

The cry continues, louder and more insistent, as if demanding attention. The sound pulls me back to awareness. I can hear the rustle of fabric, the murmured voices, the distant hum of something mechanical—a sound that shouldn’t exist in the world I left behind.

There’s a strange tension in the air, like I’ve been dropped into a world I no longer recognize. But it’s there, beneath the surface—a connection, a thread tying me to this place. I can feel it deep in my bones.

I try to move, but my limbs barely respond. Everything feels wrong. My body is… new. Small. Weak. I’m not who I was. I’ve been reborn.

The realization hits me like a tidal wave, and with it comes a flood of questions. Where am I? What world have I returned to?

The voices grow louder, clearer, as if they’re getting closer.

“*** **** ****” (“Hold them carefully,”)

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but slowly, the blur begins to fade. Shapes form, colors bleed into each other until they sharpen and settle into place.

I blink, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing, and then I notice her—a woman, cradling something in her arms, her face glowing in the soft, golden light surrounding her.

She is beautiful. Long, dark hair frames her face, cascading gently past her shoulders, and her eyes… her eyes are gentle, dark yet warm, deep pools that seem to hold a quiet strength. Her lashes are long, casting delicate shadows across her cheeks as she gazes down with tenderness at what she holds in her arms.

There’s something familiar about her—something that stirs an ache deep inside me, a tug at a part of my soul that feels lost, fractured. It’s like I know her, though I can’t place how or why.

“Who is she?”

I blink again, trying to ground myself in this strange, vivid moment. I follow her gaze downward and see them—two tiny, wriggling figures nestled securely in her arms, swaddled in soft, pristine white blankets.

Newborns.

Their small faces are flushed, their tiny hands curling and grasping at the empty air.

One of them is crying—loud, raw, and insistent, as though already demanding the world’s attention. The other is silent, eyes scrunched tightly shut, as if still adjusting, still resisting the harshness of this unfamiliar, new existence.

“Am I… seeing this? Is this… me?”

A strange feeling washes over me—an overwhelming sense of familiarity, like I’m connected to this moment in a way that defies explanation. And yet, at the same time, I feel detached, like a silent observer peering into someone else’s life.

The woman’s gentle smile, the warmth in her expression, the soft glow surrounding her—it all feels like the beginning of something. A new chapter, a fresh start. But I don’t know if I’m meant to be a part of it… or if I’m just here to watch.

The light begins to grow brighter, spreading and enveloping everything around me. My senses start to slip again, fading in and out, like I’m being pulled away. I try to hold on, to stay in the moment, but it’s like sand slipping through my fingers.

The last thing I see, just before the light completely swallows me, is her smile—soft, gentle, and full of love. Her eyes sparkle with unshed tears, and her lips move as she leans down and whispers:

“*** **** ****** ******” (“Welcome to the world, little ones…”)

Her voice is the last sound I hear. It lingers in the air like a lullaby, warm and soothing.

And then—everything goes dark.

--------------------------------------------

[After 6 months]

It’s been six whole months since I was reborn into this world—a fact that still feels surreal, even now. Half a year of trying to make sense of my new reality, of adjusting to this small, fragile body that wasn’t mine… and yet, somehow, it is.

The days pass in a blur, filled with soft murmurs, bright lights, and the steady rhythm of warm hands cradling me. I’ve come to understand most of the language around me now.

It wasn’t immediate—at first, it was just noise, indistinct and jumbled, like echoes bouncing off stone walls. But slowly, the pieces have fallen into place. It’s strange how easily the words come to me, settling into my mind like they’ve always been there, even if my tongue refuses to cooperate.

Speaking is harder than I expected. Every time I try, the sounds that come out are garbled, like trying to wield a sword with no training—clumsy, awkward, and utterly ineffective.

My mouth doesn’t listen to me, and my tongue feels like a useless lump. I manage small sounds, a few babbled syllables here and there, but it’s nowhere near enough to convey the storm of thoughts inside my head.

Crawling is another battle. Who would have thought that something so simple could be so exhausting? Every time I attempt it, my tiny limbs wobble and protest, trembling under the weight of my own body.

I manage to push myself up onto all fours, only to collapse after a few shaky inches, panting like I’ve just fought a full-scale battle. My heart pounds furiously in my chest, as if mocking me.

The most infuriating part? Watching her—my twin sister—dart around the room with ease, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

She’s impossible to ignore. Her presence fills the space like sunlight, bright and undeniable. She has these eyes that catch the light like precious gems—blue ruby eyes, vibrant and deep, shining with endless curiosity. I’ve never seen eyes like hers before, not in my previous life or this one. They sparkle with mischief as she moves, darting from shadow to shadow, exploring every corner, every flicker of light, as if the whole world exists just for her.

I watch her tiny hands reaching out, grabbing at anything within reach—a stray blanket, a shiny trinket, even our mother’s hair if she gets close enough. She’s fearless, bold, and relentless. Her laughter fills the room, echoing off the walls in bright, infectious peals. She never seems to tire.

It’s almost… unfair.

How can she be so energetic all the time? I wonder, watching her from my usual spot on the floor, struggling to keep my head up. She’s a blur of giggles and tiny hands, crawling past me like a whirlwind, while I can barely lift myself onto all fours without feeling like I’ve run a marathon.

Even though we’re twins, she’s like a storm—a wild, untamed force of nature. And I… well, I’m a calm, tired puddle in her wake.

I’ve noticed other differences between us, too. She’s louder, bolder, her presence like a beacon that draws everyone’s attention. She doesn’t hesitate to reach for what she wants, whether it’s a toy, a shiny object, or even our mother’s arms.

Meanwhile, I find myself hanging back, observing more than acting. I listen to the voices around me, piecing together words and meanings, watching the subtle shifts in their expressions and tone.

I’m not sure if it’s just because I’m quieter… or if there’s something deeper to it.

I guess, even though we’re twins, I’m weaker than her.

The thought stings more than I’d like to admit.

I was once powerful—so powerful that the mere mention of my name would strike fear into the hearts of those who heard it. I’ve fought battles that shook the heavens, stood against gods and monsters alike. I was a force to be reckoned with.

Now, I can’t even crawl across a room without collapsing in exhaustion.

It’s humbling. No… it’s humiliating. And it’s a reality I’m still struggling to accept.

Our mother is always there, watching over us with that gentle smile, her dark hair cascading around her shoulders like a curtain of night. There’s a warmth in her gaze, an undeniable softness that wraps around us like a blanket. She never shows any obvious preference between us; her eyes light up the same way whether she’s holding me or my sister.

And yet… I notice things. Small things.

How her arms seem to follow my twin more often, how her laughter rises just a little brighter when my sister is nearby. It’s not intentional, I think—it’s just that my twin demands attention in a way I don’t. She fills every corner of the room with her boundless energy, her giggles, her curious hands always reaching, pulling, exploring.

I’ve caught myself reaching out sometimes, my tiny fingers stretching toward her as she holds my sister, but the words I want to say—I’m here too. Don’t forget about me.—never come. My mouth doesn’t cooperate, and the sounds get stuck somewhere deep inside, like they’re afraid to leave.

I wonder if she notices. If she sees the way I reach, the way my eyes linger just a little longer when she brushes past me. Does she know what I’m trying to say?

It’s a peculiar thing, this new life. Every day feels like a step forward and a step back, a strange mix of discovery and frustration. I’m learning to adapt, to find my place in this small, unfamiliar world. And yet, there’s a part of me that still clings to who I was, to the memories that linger at the edges of my mind like echoes of a dream. They’re fading now, growing fainter with each passing day, but they’re still there. I can feel them, like whispers in the dark.

I don’t know what this life has in store for me, or why I was given this second chance. But as I lie here, listening to the soft murmurs of my family, to the gentle rhythm of my sister’s laughter, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something waiting for me. Something important. Something I have yet to understand.

In moments of stillness—rare, but they do happen—she’ll sit beside me, her tiny fingers brushing against mine, her blue ruby eyes flicking toward me with a gaze that’s both curious and kind. There’s something in her gaze that I can’t quite place, something deeper, as if she sees me, truly sees me, in a way no one else does.

And in those moments, I almost forget the differences between us. I almost forget that I’m weaker, quieter, slower. For a few fleeting seconds, it doesn’t matter. Because we’re connected. Two halves of a whole. As different as night and day, yet bound by something unspoken, something that pulses beneath the surface, strong and undeniable.

She’s the storm, wild and untamed, and I’m the calm, quiet and steady. But we are twins. And there is a strange, undeniable comfort in that.

Sometimes, I wonder if she feels it too—that connection, that bond that ties us together no matter how different we are.

For now, I’ll keep trying. I’ll crawl. I’ll watch. I’ll learn. Slowly, quietly, patiently.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find the strength to be more than just the weaker twin.