“Bapa?” I echoed, my voice scraping out rough and unfamiliar, like the broken creak of an ancient hinge. The word felt foreign on my tongue, unmoored from meaning. Was this man - a man whose body I now wore mute? Or was my grasp of this language so feeble that even the simplest sounds escaped me?
She giggled, her laughter light and unburdened, as though the world was no heavier than a snowflake. Her small hands tugged insistently at mine, pulling me from the warmth of the bed. Pain flared in my wrists, sharp and relentless, as though shards of glass scraped beneath the skin. Rheumatism. Of all the bodies I could have inhabited, I had to land in one as broken as my own. What a joke.
Still, the girl remained undeterred. She yanked at my hands with a determination far greater than her strength, guiding me out of the bed before I even had time to think about the situation. The wooden floor was icy beneath my bare feet, the cold biting sharply through the fog of my confusion.
Before I had even a moment to orientate myself, she hurriedly dragged me out of the room, excitement plastered on her face. The room she led me into was larger than I expected, its air laced with a chill that stung my lungs. My breath joined hers in tiny clouds of vapour, each puff dissolving into the cold. Ornamental greens and browns, branches of evergreen, draped the walls in festive patterns, their sharp scent mingling with the faint, smoky tang of extinguished fires. At the centre of the room stood a large table, its surface scattered with objects. But one thing drew my attention above all else: a small bowl perched in the centre.
The bowl, though unassuming, exuded an air of significance. Its uneven surface bore smudges of wax, and green tendrils spiralled across its rim in a crude, hand-painted design. Four neatly arranged orange peels framed its base, their symmetry at odds with the chaos of the table. Inside, a flickering candle burned steadily, its flame golden and steadfast, surrounded by sprigs of greenery, berries, and tiny, frozen flowers.
She tugged on my arm, her face alight with pride and expectation, gesturing urgently toward the bowl. Unsure what to do as she expectedly looked at me my clumsy hands hesitated as I picked up the bowl, the warmth of the flame seeping into my palms. The candlelight wavered, casting restless shadows on the walls. Was this some ritual? My birthday? Or just a child’s game?
Tentatively, I leaned forward and blew out the flame. A faint hiss marked its extinguishment. The girl froze, her expression shifting from triumph to incredulous frustration. “BAPA!” she exclaimed, stamping her tiny foot with a force that echoed in the silent room.
She darted to the table, her hands rummaging until she retrieved a small, red cylinder. With practised ease, she clicked its base, producing a dancing flame at its tip. A lighter? Here? In a world that seemed medieval? Should a child even be allowed to create a flame? Where are her parents?
Ignoring the confused look that undoubtedly was etched on my face, she reignited the candle with a quick motion, the flame springing back to life as it traced the wick. Turning to face me, her small hands rested on her hips, her gaze scolding and triumphant. “Bapa,” she said firmly, her tone a mixture of command and explanation.
I stared, bewildered. My thoughts tangled like frayed threads: Who lets a child handle fire? How does a lighter even exist here? I could hardly even focus on the new world I was in so surreal was this experience. And yet her persistence pulled me back to the moment. She pointed to the candle and then at me as she gesticulated words without sound, her brow furrowing with impatience.
A wish? A prayer? Unsure, I leaned closer and murmured something vague, a half-formed string of sounds that seemed to satisfy her. Her face brightened, her grin as radiant as the flame itself. Yet the game of charades continued.
She motioned for me to touch the flame, her gestures insistent. “You want me to… touch the flame?” I thought while pointing at the candle. She quickly nodded energetically, as if reading my thoughts. Hoping to finally appease the demanding girl, I reluctantly extended a trembling finger, expecting the sharp bite of heat. Instead, I felt only warmth: soft, soothing, and strange. The flame’s touch seemed to hum with a quiet magic, a force gentle yet undeniable. She clapped her hands, her laughter infectious, and for a moment, I was caught in her unbridled joy.
The next scene unfolded as though in a dream. Candle still in hand, she led me through corridors to a small square room dominated by a towering tree. It bore no electric lights, only decorations of berries, frozen flowers, orange peels, and.. were those cookies nestled haphazardly in the tree? Regardless, the connection between this strange world and my own continued to whisper at the edges of my thoughts as what was undeniably a medieval Christmas tree stared back at me.
Following further signs of communication from the little girl, the candle from earlier found its place atop the tree, its flame steady and proud. The girl jumped in delight, her voice ringing out: “Yule Bapa!!”
The words tugged at something deep within me, a faint familiarity, like a melody half-remembered. Yule? Where have I heard that word before?
Before I could dwell on it, she was at the door, onto her next mission, slipping into shoes and calling for me as she nibbled away on one of those cookies from the tree which she must have grabbed when I was placing the candle atop the tree. Her energy seemed boundless as I felt a groan building in my throat. Still unable to deny her requests I followed, bundling into a thick fur coat as we stepped into a forest bathed in the golden light of dawn.
The landscape was breathtaking. Frosted branches stretched skyward, their icy armour glittering in the sunlight. Snow blanketed the ground in a pristine, untouched expanse, broken only by the tracks of small animals. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth. I stumbled after her, my body stiff and unyielding, but her laughter spurred me on.
At first, I didn’t understand her urgency. She darted ahead, her small form cutting through the snow like an arrow, the fur-lined hood of her coat bouncing with each eager step. I stumbled after her with all the grace of a drunk one-legged man, my feet dragging, my breaths shallow and uneven in the biting cold. She paused now and then to glance back at me, her hazelnut eyes bright with impatience, as though she couldn’t fathom why I wouldn’t move faster.
Where was she even going? I scanned the frost-laden horizon, trying to make sense of her direction. Were her parents waiting just ahead? Was this rush born of excitement to see them, or was there something else? A new worry began building in my mind, the possibility gripped me like a vice, tightening around my chest. What if she didn’t have parents and was relying on this old man to protect her? Could I end my life, knowing she would wake up to find this man that she relied on dead?
This led me to think about all the other lives I had taken. In my constant need to escape, I convinced myself that these people weren’t real, but had every single person who I had “possessed” been real? How many lives had I destroyed if that was true? How many people had I hurt? Even now, I was a ghost inhabiting borrowed flesh. Someone who had never managed to hold his own life together.
With my thoughts tangled in a murky haze, I almost didn’t notice when she turned back to me. Her small hand reached for mine, her smile a beacon slicing through the fog of my despair. It was only then I began to hear it: the sound of children’s laughter echoing in the crisp air, their delighted shrieks mingling with the distant hum of voices and the faint clatter of stalls being tended.
Decorated trees dotted the square, their crowns adorned with flickering candles that somehow managed to stay alight. As we entered a vendor handed me a steaming drink without asking for payment, the warmth of the cup a small comfort against the cold. The girl dashed off, her arms full of snowballs, and joined a group of children in a flurry of laughter and play.
I found an empty stump which I felt I desperately needed to retire these exhausted bones. Dark thoughts threatened me once more, a call back to the void, figuring out what I would do next and how to handle my current situation. Questions without answers danced within my mind.
I sipped the drink that I was given which seemed to resemble some type of warm beer, its warmth radiating throughout my chest. It was sweeter than I expected, the warm liquid providing me some reprieve from my mind which was in a constant battle against itself.
All around me, couples and friends were laughing merrily and sharing drinks. When I caught their eye, they acknowledged me with a curt nod, but none ventured to approach. Perhaps this man I now inhabited was a recluse? I tried to shape my thoughts into words, but they disintegrated long before leaving my lips and only mumbled sounds escaped. That was when I realised something was off - was my tongue always this short? A quick touch confirmed it was indeed far shorter than the one I had in my normal life. Maybe that explained why nobody expected him to speak; or even drew near. In a twisted way, I found relief in the silence, for it kept me from betraying how little I knew of this language or this world. Still, the sensation was unnerving. I knew so little, and had so little control, left with no choice but to handle any happenstance that came my way.
At this point I remembered the little question mark that hung fragily at the edge of my vision. I focused on it and was once again greeted with a status for the inhabited.
- Birth name: Eilif Sigmund
- Age: 79
- Class: Unawakened
- Subclass: Out of bounds
- Level: 10
- Attributes
- Standard Attributes:
- Strength (1)
- Dexterity (1)
- Constitution (1)
- Intelligence (1)
- Wisdom (1)
- Class Attributes:
- None
- Earned attributes
- None
- Abilities
- Standard Abilities:
- Denied
- Class Abilities
- Denied
- Earned Abilities
- Denied
- Proficiencies
- Denied
- Denied
- Racial Traits
- Tenacious
- Status
- None
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The same results were once again retrieved. This was consistent with all of the other people I had possessed, only the name and age ever changed. Why were all these abilities denied? What did it mean that the subclass was out of bounds? If this was a video game, it really was the shittest video game I’d ever played. My brain couldn’t throw me into some dream world? Some world where I could use magic and I wasn’t some insignificant man who hurt every time he moved?
No sooner had I finished my cup than a smiling man approached with a basket. He refilled my drink to the brim with the same warm, steaming beer - this time I noticed bits of fruit, strained out from the brew and then offered me a basket containing a loaf of brown bread and a wedge of cheese. After I gratefully accepted, he nodded and moved on to the next couple.
Only when I laid eyes on the bread and cheese did I realize how ravenous I’d become. The little girl who had guided me here must have noticed too; the moment she spotted the basket-bearer approaching, she abandoned her half-formed snowball and dashed toward me.
We both dove into the basket with unbridled eagerness. The cheese was crumbly and richly salted, its tang lingering on my tongue. The bread was still warm from the hearth, its crust golden and crisp to the touch. As I tore it open, a curl of steam escaped, unveiling a soft, wheaten interior. Beneath the loaf, I found a wooden dish of whipped butter sprinkled with coarse salt and a small pouch of dried berries. The sweet-tart burst of the berries, the salty butter, and the hearty bread made for a feast that filled my senses. For a moment, the strangeness of this world faded, replaced by the simple joy of good food consumed in the crisp cold.
Once we had finished its contents, the little girl didn’t linger. Sated, she immediately pushed off the bench and ran with an even quicker fervour, clearly not wanting to miss out on the fun with the others. Watching them play, I remembered my childhood and the carefree nature I used to have. I was always the most fearless, the most wild, jumping from garages and convincing the other kids to follow me. I was never afraid of anything.
My extremities had grown so cold I could feel the mucus in my nose stiffening to ice. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to call the girl back seeing how much fun she was having, so I let her play until the last light of day had faded. Luckily, visitors kept stopping by to refill my mug, a small but welcome mercy that at least kept my insides warm.
When the other kids disbanded, I thought it was my cue to get up as well as I came back up on unsteady legs. This drink was strong. My joints felt like they had thick blocks of ice trapped inside them, that stiffened them to the point where I could barely move. Still, I swallowed it down and kept my face from betraying me, the cold on my face doing well to freeze my expression.
We set off for home through the crisp, snowy air. The little girl bounded ahead like an excitable pup, dashing back and forth to make sure I was still following. Her energy seemed inexhaustible, but it was hard not to smile when she paused to fling herself into the snow and carve out a perfect snow angel. “BAPA!” she yelled as she lifted one of her little hands expectedly. She lay still for a moment, inspecting her handiwork with the solemn focus only children can muster, before extending a tiny hand toward me. “BAPA!” she called again, her voice bursting with urgency. I stepped forward, understanding her silent plea. Gently, I hooked my hands under her arms and lifted her, careful not to disturb the snow. She rose with equal care, her movements deliberate, as though the snow angel’s perfection depended on our shared precision. Once upright, she spun to admire her creation, her eyes wide with delight. The sight of her checking on me between bursts of laughter was endearing, and for a moment, the chill didn’t feel quite so bitter.
When we returned home, the little girl darted ahead, her small frame disappearing into the dim interior. The house felt colder than before, the lingering chill of winter seeping through its wooden walls. Moments later, she reappeared, clutching the red cylindrical lighter in her tiny hands.
With a determined expression, she made her way to the stone fireplace near the tree. Its hearth was quiet and lifeless, filled with cold ash from an earlier fire. She crouched before it, her motions deliberate, and clicked the lighter to produce a dancing flame. Carefully, she held it to a bundle of kindling arranged among the logs, coaxing the fire to life with soft puffs of air.
This little girl was a better survivalist than me I stared in suprise. The flame caught, growing steadily, its warm glow spreading through the room. Shadows danced on the walls as the crackling of burning wood filled the silence. She straightened, satisfied with her work, and turned to me with a proud grin before darting off again.
This time, she returned with a glass bottle of milk, its surface cloudy and chilled to the touch. Her small hands cradled it as though it were a treasure, and without a word, she headed back to the fireplace. From a low shelf nearby, she fetched a battered pot, dented but sturdy, and poured the milk into it. The pale liquid glistened in the firelight as she set the pot onto an iron hook hanging over the flames.
I watched, transfixed, as she worked with a quiet competence that seemed far beyond her years. She adjusted the hook to lower the pot closer to the fire, the metal creaking faintly. Soon, the soft hiss of warming milk filled the air, accompanied by the comforting scent of its sweetness mingling with the smoky tang of the fireplace.
Her focus was unwavering as she stirred the pot with a wooden spoon she had retrieved from somewhere nearby. When the milk was ready, she carefully poured it into a wooden mug, her small hands steady despite the heat. She held it out to me with a triumphant smile, her eyes sparkling with pride.
I took the mug from her, the warmth seeping into my cold fingers like a balm against the lingering chill. The scent of the milk wafted upward soft, creamy, and inviting in its simplicity. I took a tentative sip, and the first taste sent a wave of comfort through me. It was rich, slightly sweet, and soothing in a way I hadn’t expected. For a fleeting moment, I felt anchored, as though the world had quieted just enough for me to catch my breath.
She poured herself a smaller, measured cup, her hands steady despite the heat. Then, to my surprise, she turned toward a nook beside the fireplace and pulled out a polished wooden board. Its surface gleamed faintly in the firelight, and as she opened it, the familiar outline of a chess set revealed itself.
Unbothered by my silent astonishment, she began placing the pieces on her side of the board with a precision that hinted at practice. Pawns, rooks, knights, bishops all found their places in orderly rows. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause to explain. Once her side was arranged, she gestured for me to do the same, her expectant gaze practically daring me to join her.
I stared at the board for a long moment, the sight tugging at something distant in my memory. It was another thread connecting this strange world to my own, another taunt from fate, as though daring me to question the boundary between reality and madness. But I had stopped being shocked by such things. Whether it was my fractured mind conjuring these details or this world itself defying my expectations, I decided I could use the distraction.
I reached for the pieces and began arranging them. The feel of the carved wood beneath my fingers was oddly satisfying, grounding. It had been years since I last played, the rules tucked somewhere in the back of my mind. I vaguely remembered learning one quiet evening when boredom had driven me to a video tutorial. I’d played a few games with friends after that but had never been particularly good.
Once the board was set, I moved first. A central pawn slid forward to claim its place in the middle of the board. I leaned back, waiting for her response. She furrowed her brow in concentration, then picked up her bishop and placed it directly in the middle of the board, leaping over her pawns without a second thought.
I couldn’t help but smile. It was clear that the rules were, at best, optional to her. Deciding to play along, I moved my queen, mimicking her tactic to capture her bishop. The little girl stared at the board, her lips pursed in thought, before seizing her knight with a dramatic flourish. She leaned forward and knocked my king flat with a decisive “thunk.”
Her eyes sparkled with triumph as she grinned up at me, utterly convinced of her hard-fought victory. Without hesitation, she began resetting the board, carefully placing each piece back in its starting position. At least she knew how to set it up, I thought wryly.
As she gestured for me to begin again, I took another sip of my milk, resigning myself to what would be a very long night. But as the fire crackled nearby and her laughter filled the room, I couldn’t bring myself to mind.
When we finally went to bed, sleep did not come easily. The call of the void found its way into my mind once again, persistent and unrelenting. I had made my decision - I wouldn’t end my life. Not yet. Not until I knew the girl had someone else to care for her, someone who would protect her and ensure she was never left alone. But the pull was still there, an invisible tether wrapped tight around my soul. It was like crossing a boundary that should never be crossed; once you step over it, there’s no going back. You spend your whole life avoiding that edge, but once you’ve leapt, a part of you is always poised to fall again. The silence of that pull, so deceptively gentle, dragged at me, calling me back to death.
Still, I bottled those thoughts, burying them deep where they couldn’t claw their way to the surface. I never considered myself a man of great morals or conviction. But for the girl, for her small, trusting eyes, her unflinching belief that I was her guardian - I cared. I cared more than I thought myself capable of. She was too little, too innocent, to witness the passing of the only person she believed would keep her safe. Even if there was only a fraction of a chance that this world was real, I couldn’t abandon her to it.
And almost definitely there was a selfishness in it, too. This day, seeing her joy, her boundless happiness - it had done something to me. Her pride as she handed me the warm mug of milk, her triumphant grin after knocking my king over in our makeshift chess game, her laughter ringing like tiny bells through the quiet house. These moments had stirred something I thought was long dead. As I replayed them in my mind, they filled me with a warmth I didn’t recognise, one that made my unfamiliar heart stutter unsteadily in my chest.
It was as though her joy, so pure and untainted, had ignited something long buried - a faint ember of love that transported me back to a simpler time, a childhood when the world felt kinder and smaller.
Slowly, the weight of the day pressed down, and my mind surrendered to the stillness of the night.