**Chapter 1: A Life Not My Own**

It takes you some time to realize you've been reincarnated. The first days of your new life are a blur; you aren't in a hospital anymore, there's a house now instead, walls and pictures and furniture that you've never seen before. Your new body can't express a lot of feelings, so tiny and weak and breakable, but there is one thing you can do and you do just that. You wail. Your parents get really tired after a while: for as much as they rock and cradle you and feed you and try stupid faces to make you laugh, you keep sobbing desperately. At first, they get stressed, then really concerned. They take you to a doctor but he's left as puzzled as them. "There is nothing wrong with your daughter," he says, furrowing his thick brows as he gazes down at his analysis. "She's perfectly healthy. You tell me she's been crying for the whole day?" "Almost never stopping," your mother confirms. Your father is rocking you on his hip, trying to shush you gently, and you're still screaming your lungs out. The doctor looks powerless as he spreads his arms open. "I'm sorry," he says, "I have no idea. If she keeps this up, take her back here, and we'll run some other exams. But if that can comfort you, she's truly fine, physical-wise." Your parents nod. They don't look very comforted. You hear your father mutter angrily, in the front seat of the car, that some doctors these days really don't know how to do their job, and you feel kind of bad for the poor guy. He's right, after all: there's nothing physically wrong with you. You're just crying and crying and crying because you feel like it. And really, there is nothing else for you to do. The situation you've found yourself in is so glaringly wrong that you have to express your un-comfortableness somehow. You had a life before. Although the memories are fuzzy and confused (and that scares you so much because what if they keep getting worse, what if you forget everything), you're 100% sure that this is not your first life. And that's wrong. This is not your body. Those are not your parents. That's not your house, or your city - this whole world looks different. The furniture, the clothes, the faces - everything is foreign. You try to recall your past life, but it's like trying to grasp a handful of sand - the harder you squeeze, the more it slips away. You remember fragments: a cityscape with towering skyscrapers, a face with piercing green eyes, a voice that whispered your name. But they're fleeting, disappearing as soon as you think you've grasped them. As the car ride continues, you start to calm down, exhausted from your crying fit. Your parents try to soothe you, speaking softly and stroking your hair. But you're too busy trying to make sense of your new reality to respond. You're trapped in a body that isn't yours, in a world that's not your own. And you have no idea how to escape. As the car pulls into the driveway, your parents exchange a worried glance. You can sense their concern, their uncertainty about what to do with a child who seems to be crying from the very depths of her soul. You look up at them, and for a brief moment, you think you see a flicker of recognition in their eyes. But it's gone before you can grasp it. The car stops, and your father turns off the engine. Your mother opens the door and steps out, scooping you into her arms. "Let's get you inside, sweetie," she coos. "We'll figure out what's wrong." But you know that it's not just about being wrong. It's about being lost. And you're not sure if you'll ever find your way back home.