"Echoes of a Forgotten Life"

Prompt: Your. x G howto copy text from picture i x + 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. You shouldn't be here. You faintly remember your previous life: you had a family and friends, but you can't remember how it ended. Isn't it cruel? There is a huge void in your memory, as if you just feel asleep one evening and woke up in that new body, out of the womb, with two foreign faces smiling down at the tiny, tiny you. Maybe it truly went like that. Maybe you died in your sleep, you had a heart condition and nobody knew. Maybe it was sudden or traumatic, like a car accident, and your brain locked the memory away. Maybe you will remember when you get older, or maybe- maybe you'll forget everything. You wail harder. Your parents take you to the doctor again the following day. You've been crying all night, and they're worried out of their mind. Also sleep-deprived. The doctor runs some other tests, and once again is forced to admit that there's nothing wrong with you. He looks frazzled and nervous, maybe because both your parents are glaring at him. A tiny part of you feels bad, but the majority is still crying like a baby (literally), and doesn't care at all. It happens while you're exiting. There is someone else in the waiting room, a couple with a small kid. He must be around four. You've never seen him before (of course you haven't), and he doesn't catch your attention- but as you pass them, your parents cooing sweet nothings into your ears in the vain hope that it will calm you down, you catch a sentence, It's the kid's mother to speak. "Don't worry sweetie! You took your quirk from mom and dad, so you'll be able to control it just fine.