The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled Skilvyo's nostrils as his consciousness solidified in this new reality. He lay supine, his back pressed against the cool, yielding ground of the forest floor. Towering emerald canopies filtered the sunlight into dancing patterns above, and the melodic chirping of unseen creatures echoed through the dense foliage. For a moment, a sense of bewildered calm washed over him, a stark contrast to the chaotic void he had just left.

  He willed his limbs to move, a simple command that should have translated into immediate action. Yet, when he attempted to push himself up, a strange lack of coordination and strength betrayed his intentions. His arms flailed weakly, offering no purchase against the damp earth. A frown creased his brow – a familiar expression from a life he no longer seemed to possess in its entirety.

  Driven by a growing unease, Skilvyo lifted his hands before his eyes. What greeted him sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated shock through his being. His hands… they were tiny. Diminutive fingers, soft and uncalloused, curled and unfurled with a fragility that was utterly alien. He wiggled them, the movements jerky and unpracticed. A wave of cold dread washed over him as the horrifying realization dawned. His limbs felt disproportionately small, his torso strangely light.

  Wait… no… this can’t be! The silent scream echoed within the confines of his skull, a frantic denial of the undeniable truth. He tried again to sit up, his efforts even more futile than before. His center of gravity was all wrong, his muscles possessing the strength of a newborn.

  Panic began to bubble in his chest, a suffocating wave of helplessness. “Hey! Author! What have you done? Why am I in such a small body? What is going on?” The internal cry was laced with outrage and a desperate need for answers. The stark white screen remained stubbornly absent. The Author, it seemed, had once again chosen silence, leaving Skilvyo to grapple with this bizarre and terrifying predicament.

  While Skilvyo wrestled with the crushing reality of his infantile form and the Author's infuriating silence, the rustling of leaves nearby broke through his internal turmoil. Heavy footsteps approached, crunching on fallen branches. Skilvyo, unable to move with any real purpose, could only watch as the undergrowth parted.

  A man emerged, his brow furrowed in concern. He was of sturdy build, clad in simple leather garments, his face weathered by the elements. His eyes, initially focused on the path ahead, widened as they caught sight of the small form lying amongst the ferns.

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  “Well now, what’s this?” the man muttered to himself, his voice a low rumble. He approached cautiously, peering down at Skilvyo. “A child? What’s a child doing all alone in the middle of the forest?” He scanned the surrounding trees, his gaze searching for any sign of other people. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.”

  A thoughtful expression crossed his face. “How could someone just abandon a babe out here?” He knelt down, his large hands hovering hesitantly above Skilvyo’s tiny form. Skilvyo, despite his internal panic, could only stare up at the man, his mind racing. This had to be part of the Author’s plan. There was no other explanation for this sudden, inexplicable regression.

  The man remained there for a long moment, his conscience clearly battling with the situation. Finally, he sighed, a decision seemingly made. “Well, I can’t just leave you here to the wilds.” He carefully scooped up Skilvyo in his arms, supporting his small head with a gentleness that belied his rugged appearance.

  As the man began to walk, cradling him close, Skilvyo felt a strange mix of fear and resignation. He was utterly helpless, completely at the mercy of this stranger. “Author,” he thought again, a silent plea this time, “is this your idea of ‘advancing the plot’?” The Author remained stubbornly silent.

  The journey was a blur of swaying trees and the rhythmic sound of the man’s footsteps. Eventually, they emerged from the dense forest into a small clearing where a cozy-looking cottage stood, smoke curling gently from its chimney.

  As they entered, a woman with a warm smile and kind eyes rushed forward. “Harlan! What have you got there?” she asked, her voice filled with concern as she saw the small bundle in his arms. “Whose baby is this?”

  Harlan, the man who had found him, explained the situation, his voice tinged with sadness and a hint of anger at the unknown person who had abandoned the child. He recounted finding Skilvyo alone in the forest, with no one else around.

  A soft gasp escaped the woman’s lips. She gently reached out and stroked Skilvyo’s cheek with a tender finger. “Oh, the poor little thing.” Her eyes met Harlan’s, a silent question passing between them.

  Harlan nodded, a hopeful look in his eyes. “What do you say, Elara? Should we… should we take him in? Raise him as our own?”

  Elara’s smile widened, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Oh, Harlan,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I can’t imagine leaving him out there. Yes. Yes, let’s adopt him.”

  As Elara’s loving gaze fell upon him, a wave of resignation washed over Skilvyo. The Author’s hand, it seemed, was guiding his story in a direction he hadn’t anticipated. He was a helpless infant in a world he knew nothing about, at the mercy of strangers. “Well,” he thought with a sigh of internal defeat, “I suppose I don’t really have a choice in this, do I?” The Author’s silence was, as always, deafeningly clear.