I felt a weight pressing down on my eyelids, heavy but oddly gentle. Slowly, I forced my eyes open, blinking against the dim light. For a moment, I held my breath, expecting something grand—like a blinding glow, or a divine throne room, or at least a celestial welcome party.
Instead, the blurry edges sharpened into the bars of a wooden crib.
My chest tightened, a quiet laugh bubbling up despite myself. So much for a glorious afterlife.
This was it.
I closed my eyes again, fully aware now.
I was trapped.
And somewhere in that trapped space, I found a strange kind of humor.
Because if this was my afterlife, well—at least it was honest.
Okay.
No. Nope. I reject this.
I was a hero, thank you very much. I saved my little sister from falling off a goddamn mountain with nothing but sheer adrenaline, bad decision-making, and pure sisterly love.
I earned a dramatic death scene.
What I did not sign up for… was waking up in a rustic crib with my knees tucked to my chest like an awkward loaf of bread.
Let me paint the picture: old timber walls, candle sconces, handwoven linens, and the unmistakable scent of herbal wood polish and regret. The room is straight out of a medieval fever dream. The kind of place that says, Yes, the plumbing is a bucket. Enjoy.
I blinked once. Twice. Still here.
I squirmed in the crib and caught sight of my hands.
Tiny. Chubby. Ridiculously soft.
"What—what the actual—no. No, no, no, NO."
I tried to sit up. My muscles didn't agree. All I managed was a twitch and a half-hearted baby grunt, which echoed into the rafters like a pitiful squeak toy. Amazing. Peak dignity.
This can't be real.
But the warm blanket tucked around me said otherwise. My squishy baby limbs? Confirmed. Helpless. Soft. Utterly betrayed by my own body.
My brain was doing cartwheels trying to piece together how I'd gone from heroic death dive to this full-body regression. I half-expected Morgan Freeman's voice to narrate over my crib like, And that's when Aria realized… the universe had a sense of humor.
I should be panicking. Crying. Screaming like an actual baby.
But I wasn't.
I was pissed.
And then she walked in.
The woman—tall, graceful, and so outrageously stunning I momentarily forgot how angry I was. She looked like she'd been sculpted by angels with too much time on their hands. Skin like porcelain. Eyes like moonlight. That soft smile that said, Yes, I am your mother, and also maybe a forest deity.
I didn't know whether to admire her or call her out for breaking the laws of genetic fairness.
Her hair was long, golden, and braided down her back like she was about to ride a unicorn into a ballad. Her dress was made of something flowy and expensive-looking that whispered like a lullaby every time she moved.
She leaned over the crib with a look so tender it made my inner adult shrink three sizes.
"Oh, don't you smile at me like that," I muttered inside my head, glaring at her with all the power my undeveloped baby face could muster. "You don't know me."
And then came him.
The man.
Oh, come on.
Was this a setup?
This guy was basically a carved statue of every heroic dad trope in fantasy. Broad shoulders. Beard like a myth. Hands the size of dinner plates. His tunic looked like he'd just chopped wood, rescued an elk, and philosophized about honor all before breakfast.
He walked over and—without even trying—lifted me like I weighed less than a thought.
I dangled there. A burrito of helplessness.
He looked down at me, grinning with such open affection it was almost embarrassing. Like I was the crown jewel of his entire existence.
"Oh, God. You're one of those dads," I thought grimly.
And just to drive the ridiculousness home, he gave me a big kiss on the forehead and let out a laugh that could fell trees.
"Okay," I whispered internally. "So… we're just doing this, huh? Full-blown fantasy rebirth? Hot parents? Nonsense language? I get it. Universe, you're hilarious."
Because they were speaking. Just not anything I understood.
The words coming out of their mouths sounded like they were practicing some Tolkien dialect. All soft consonants and ancient vowels. Beautiful, sure, but utterly indecipherable.
I narrowed my eyes.
If this was an elaborate cult ritual, I'd like to opt out.
But no—they weren't trying to sacrifice me. They were smiling. Laughing. Loving me.
I didn't know if that made it better or worse.
Because the truth was settling in now. A dark, creeping certainty.
This isn't a dream.
I'm a baby. A literal, swaddled baby.
And worse? I'm adorable. Apparently.
My cheeks were pillowy. My hands? Useless and soft. My hair—what little of it I had—was the same reddish-gold I vaguely remembered from the mirror. So they hadn't changed everything.
Which somehow made it worse.
I looked like a Pinterest-perfect baby.
A tragic waste of former glory.
Inside, I was screaming.
Outside, I burbled.
The beautiful woman cooed something at me and kissed my hand, and I wanted to shout, Lady, I used to drive a car! I paid taxes! I had a student loan!
But no. All that came out was a wet gurgle and a fart.
The man beamed at me like I'd just recited poetry.
Oh, kill me.
I wasn't just trapped in a baby's body—I was being celebrated for it.
I glanced between them. These two giants, with their radiant smiles and their celestial genetics, were completely devoted to me.
And just like that, the reality cracked open in my chest.
This is it. My second life. My second chance.
Not as a warrior. Not as a sister, or a fighter, or anything remotely resembling my old self.
Just… this.
A tiny, helpless creature.
Again.
"Okay," I thought darkly, glaring up at my new dad's suspiciously perfect cheekbones. "We'll play this game. But I swear, if you name me something like Buttercup or Elfwyn, I'm biting you the second I grow teeth."
And as I was passed back into my mother's arms—her warmth wrapping around me like a memory I didn't know I needed—I sighed.
Out loud.
Like a real baby.
I was doomed.