Learning to walk again was more humiliating than dying.
Well… even more humiliating was having your butt wiped, like dignity had been flushed down the drain along with everything else.
The first few days were a ridiculous choreography of bibs, forced naps, and exaggerated praise for holding a spoon without throwing it.
They clapped like I'd discovered penicillin. I just thought about how to get out of there without literally crawling.
They called me Huck. I still struggled to accept that name as mine. In my head, I was still… well, no one important, but at least an adult-sized someone with a deep voice.
Now my voice squeaked like a rubber duck, and every time I tried to speak clearly, I ended up drooling out one syllable at a time, like my operating system had been rebooted.
The name also sounded oddly familiar, though I didn't know why.
The worst part was the mirror.
The one in the hallway bathroom, right at kid height. Every time I crawled past it, that round, rosy-cheeked face—with eyes too big—stared back with a mix of surprise and suspicion, like that kid couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"Is that me?"
It was like being trapped in a cartoon. Worse: in a cute cartoon. And everyone acted like this was the best thing in the world.
But the real hell wasn't the body, or the voice, or the damned lack of motor control. It was the helplessness of not being able to do anything. Nothing useful. I had the mind of a man who had lived, loved, fought, died… and now I couldn't open a fucking door without help.
It's not like my past life had been particularly great, but at least it was mine. At least I knew how to use a toilet.
And yet, every morning, that pale sunlight creeping through the curtains brought the same questions: Why am I here? What was the point of all this? Was it a second chance?
Despite everything, my body was learning faster than normal.
I took a week to control my head. Two to sit up. Three months to stand and stay upright.
And before I realized it, I was taking steps without wobbling. In four months, I'd learned what a normal child learns in two years.
And not just physically: language was coming back too, like the words had just been waiting their turn in some corner of my mind.
First random sounds, then syllables. In secret, I repeated full sentences when no one was around. Sometimes under the blanket, sometimes in the empty kitchen, practicing intonations like someone sharpening a knife.
But I had to fake it.
Stumble on purpose. Babble even though I could already conjugate verbs in my head.
I wasn't ready to end up in a cold white room, with doctors staring at me like a lab rat.
So I smiled with a crooked mouth and clapped when they asked, like a chick pecking rice.
Miss Evelyn would tuck me in every night, whispering how proud she was of my progress, not knowing I was holding back.
After all, it's not the strongest who survives, but the one who adapts best…
At first, I thought my rapid learning was just because of my memories—like I'd been given a second chance with better hardware.
But I soon realized it was something more.
It wasn't just that I walked before the others.
It wasn't just that I spoke softly so they wouldn't notice I could form full sentences.
I was also… stronger. Inexplicably strong.
The first time was with a crib. Not out of hunger or anger, but because of a notebook.
Wendy, who was three years older than me, used to fill her notebooks drawing monsters.
Awkward creatures with crooked legs and oversized teeth… but something sad in their eyes. She'd shown them to me a few times, without saying much. Like drawing them was her way of letting out what she couldn't put into words.
One afternoon, she left one of those notebooks in the hallway near my crib.
It could've gotten crumpled or —worse— ended up in the hands of a kid who didn't understand it.
So I stretched my arm between the bars to reach it, but my arms were too short.
So I pressed my feet against the opposite end of the crib and pushed. I just wanted to get a few inches closer.
But instead, the crib slid across the floor like it weighed nothing.
The notebook ended up right in front of me.
I froze, hands still stretched out, staring at the bars that had moved so easily.
From then on, I started to suspect there was something in me that wasn't entirely… normal.
Then came the door. I was three by then.
It wasn't an accident. It was a fight. One of those small, silly fights between kids who don't understand each other.
One of the older boys—William, if I remember right—shoved Wendy, making her books fall to the ground. It wasn't a big deal, a typical push. But something inside me lit up.
I didn't think. I just reacted. I turned and pushed him back. Not with real force, or so I thought. I just wanted him to back off.
Like saying: enough.
But the boy flew.
He landed on his back against the pantry door with a dull thud. The wood creaked, splintered near the lock, and swung open like someone had rammed it from inside.
There was silence.
The kind that smells like fear.
He stayed on the floor, staring at me with a mix of surprise and fear. I also froze, like the slightest move would give me away to the universe.
I got scolded by Mrs. Magdalena, who made the best soups in the world even when she forgot the salt, but from then on William never bothered us again.
Every time he saw us, he pretended not to.
So I guess it was worth it.
Besides the strength, there was something else. A strange, persistent feeling. Like a tingling in the chest or a gentle tug behind the eyes.
At first, I thought it was anxiety. Later I knew it wasn't. It was intuition. I called it a sixth sense.
The strongest example came when Miss Patty lost her keys. She'd been looking for half an hour, sweating, muttering prayers while old Mrs. Magdalena tried to calm her down.
I just closed my eyes and felt it—that gentle pull pointing toward the toy bin. I walked up without thinking and pointed.They were there, under a plastic truck.
She called me a "miracle boy." I didn't reply, because it wasn't a miracle.
It was something else. Another reminder that this new body carried secrets I still didn't fully understand.
And the more I listened, the more I grew, the sharper and stronger I became…
I was recalling these moments when Wendy's voice cut through my thoughts.
"Huck, what are you doing?" she asked, walking over with tempera-stained hands and untied sneakers.
Yeah, it was Wendy, that loud, weird girl and my only friend.
Not "weird" in a bad way, but because her hands were always dirty, she spoke too loudly, and asked questions no one wanted to answer.
She was bossy and curious, and somehow that made the San Gabriel orphanage feel more like home.
The people here weren't those cold caricatures from old movies—they were warm, if practical. There was love in their gestures, even if not always in their words.
I was eight now. At least, that's what the paper on my locker door said. And though my old world still lived in my memory, this new world had roots of its own.
Laughter at breakfast.
The smell of freshly baked bread.
Whispered prayers.
Long days under the sun and safe nights under thick blankets.
"Off in space again?" she asked with that mix of concern and curiosity that was hers alone.
"Yeah," I answered.
"About what this time?"
"That when I grow up, I'm going to be like Superman… or Spiderman."
She crossed her arms and looked at me like I was a puzzle she wouldn't leave unsolved.
"You're weird, Huck."
"You too."
We were the weird ones at the orphanage.
Maybe that's why we got along so well—like Leslie and Jess in Bridge to Terabithia.
We smiled at each other. That clumsy, honest kind of smile only kids can manage without feeling dumb.
Wendy was the kind of friend who didn't need to understand in order to stay.
She didn't know who I'd been, or everything I carried inside. But she was there. And that, to me, was worth more than any miracle.