— So this is what death is like? — Rodrick thought.
A dark and empty place, with no notion of space or time. A vastness of nothing that stretched infinitely in all directions.
I spent years believing that, after my death, I would face divine judgment — perhaps like in the biblical tales, where souls are weighed and destinies decided, or the Egyptian Book of the Dead, where Anubis places our heart on a scale against the feather of truth.
But no.
Is that all? Nothingness? No limbo, no valley of suicides... just an absolute and silent void?
Suddenly, like a distant whisper that grew louder, I began to hear voices.
— Have they found me? Have they taken me to a hospital? — Rodrick thought, a spark of hope or perhaps fear emerging in the void of his consciousness.
A few seconds passed, and he noticed something strange: he didn't understand a single word of what they were saying. The sounds were clearly human voices, but the words were completely incomprehensible.
— What language is this? It's not Portuguese... and certainly not English. It doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard before.
When he was younger, Rodrick enjoyed studying other languages. English, in particular, he had learned for years, reaching an advanced level that allowed him to understand movies without subtitles and read books in their original language.
Still, the words he heard now were completely strange, as if they had never passed through his ears before. There was no familiarity whatsoever, no recognizable pattern.
Rodrick noticed that there was more than one person in that room. Not because his eyes were open — they remained closed, too heavy to move — but because he could distinguish the different voices: at least two women, one with a young voice and another more mature, and a man, whose voice trembled slightly.
One of the women was crying. Not a contained cry, but deep sobs that seemed to come from the depths of her soul. He could feel the warm tears falling on his face, a strangely real sensation for someone who believed they were dead. He didn't understand the reason for that weeping.
— Is the person who found me crying for me? Or is it the wife of the man I killed? — he thought, confused, as he tried to piece together the scattered fragments of his memory.
As he tried to understand the situation, the voices continued conversing at their incomprehensible pace, and he still couldn't decipher a single word.
[— Miss, I'm so sorry! I did everything I could to save your son. I used healing magic, even intermediate level... but, unfortunately, I couldn't.]
In the middle of the older woman's speech, the younger woman's crying intensified, growing stronger and more desperate, like the lament of someone who had lost something irreplaceable. Soon after, the man's voice, choked with tears, sounded:
[— Love, forgive me! I couldn't bring the midwife in time! This is all my fault... If only I had money to keep a midwife nearby while you were about to give birth... I'm sorry, love... I'm sorry, son!]
I didn't understand why, but suddenly, an enormous urge to cry began to grow inside me. It was like a wave rising from my chest to my throat, uncontrollable and overwhelming. I tried, in every possible way, to control this feeling... this uncontrollable desire that seemed not to belong to me. But it was in vain.
As I opened my eyes with effort, as if waking from a deep sleep, tears began to stream down my cheeks, and I simply couldn't hold them back anymore. I didn't know why, I just felt it was something natural, as if it were beyond my will. Something I couldn't control, like a primitive reflex of a body I didn't recognize as my own.
With my vision blurred by tears, I finally managed to see a woman holding me in her lap, her face very close to mine.
She seemed to be about 19 years old, no more. Her eyes were a deep navy blue, like the ocean on a stormy day, but they were red and swollen from crying so much. Her face was delicate and beautiful, with features reminiscent of a young European woman from Renaissance paintings, and her hair had a golden blonde hue, like strands of pure gold illuminated by the soft light entering through the window.
When I started crying, it wasn't just her who looked at me in astonishment. The man beside her also turned to me, with an expression that mixed disbelief and hope, as if witnessing something impossible.
He seemed to be about 23 years old. He had a very masculine face for his age, with a defined jawline and thick eyebrows, light brown eyes that shone with contained tears, and bluish-black hair, like the night sky. His appearance also resembled a European, perhaps from the north, judging by his features.
Suddenly, the third person in the room approached quickly, her eyes wide with surprise.
She was an older woman, appearing to be about 52 years old. Some wrinkles marked her face, especially around her eyes and mouth, and her hair, already starting to turn white at the temples, made clear the weight of age and experience. Her eyes were a light green, like young leaves in spring, and, like the other two, her appearance was also typically European, with that air of wisdom that only years can bestow.
As I tried to understand who these people were and what was happening, the woman holding me in her arms began to cry again. But, this time, her tears didn't seem to be of sadness, as before. There was something different about them, something that transformed her face. Relief, perhaps... or a happiness so intense that it could only be expressed through tears.
Instinctively, as if my body responded to a command I didn't give, I tried to raise my hands, wanting, somehow, to wipe away her tears. It was at that moment that I realized something deeply disturbing:
I had no strength at all.
My arms seemed weak, small... clumsy. They didn't respond as they should, moving in an uncoordinated way, as if I had never used limbs before.
— What's happening? — I thought, a growing panic taking over me. — Have I become... a child? Is this serious!? This can't be real.
Even in life, I always had a strong physical constitution, muscles defined by constant training, so that fragile and defenseless body was something impossible to accept. It was then that reality, slow and cruel like a blade penetrating flesh, revealed itself: I had reincarnated.
Exactly like in the oriental fantasy novels I read during adolescence — and even as an adult, in moments of solitude. Those stories I always considered mere fiction now seemed to be the most plausible explanation for what I was experiencing.
The woman holding me pulled me closer, and enveloped me in a subtle, careful embrace, as if I were made of porcelain that could break at the slightest carelessness. A gesture that, for me, was unmistakable even after so many years: a mother's embrace. The same kind of hug my own mother, Beatriz, used to give me when I was a child, before tragedy destroyed our family.
Overwhelmed by that wave of nostalgic feelings and the memory of a long-lost affection, I couldn't hold back. My crying, initially contained, grew stronger and stronger, uncontrollable, as if years of repressed pain finally found an outlet.
The woman, however, didn't seem bothered by my crying. On the contrary. She began to kiss my cheeks repeatedly, murmuring words of comfort that I didn't understand, as if trying to calm me... or as if she wanted to compensate for all the minutes she thought she would lose me forever.
I could feel that she didn't want to let me go, that she held me as if I could disappear at any moment. Even when the man and the lady beside her asked, almost pleading, for her to hand me over, she just held me tighter against her chest, like a lioness protecting her cub.
Then, the man — who, by all indications, was the father of the child whose body I now inhabited — spoke to the woman in a much lighter and happier tone than before, his voice still choked with emotion, but now filled with hope.
[— Maria, you need to hand our son over to the healer to examine him. I know you don't want to be separated from him, but please, let her take a look. We need to make sure he's really well.]
With great reluctance, like someone handing over their most precious possession, she handed me over to the older lady, who received me in her arms with impressive care, like someone who had held hundreds of newborns throughout her life.
Suddenly, something extraordinary happened. A white light, soft as moonlight but intense as the midday sun, began to emanate from the hand of the elder who now held me. The light enveloped my small body like a protective cloak. The sensation was indescribable — warm and comforting, as if, somehow, I was safe again, protected from all evil.
— What is this? — I thought, amazed and confused at the same time. — Is this magic? Real magic? Does magic really exist in this world?
I kept reflecting on that, trying to process what I was seeing. Even though my family, in my old world, dealt with what they called energy — mages, as they liked to call themselves with a certain pride — the magic there wasn't like this, so tangible and visible. There was no physical form, no light emanating from hands, nor this warmth that seemed to heal not only the body but also the soul. It was something abstract, conceptual, different from anything I was witnessing now.
Even with all the confusion surrounding me, with all the unanswered questions accumulating in my mind, what impacted me most was witnessing that extraordinary phenomenon... something that, until then, I only knew from fantasy books and ancient legends.
— Interesting... no, it's more than that — it's a divine gift — I thought, as the light continued to envelop me, as if examining every cell of my being.
Shortly after, the light coming from the elder's hand gradually diminished until it ceased completely. She opened a slight smile, the kind of smile that carries wisdom and mystery, and walked back to the woman who, seconds before, held me in her arms with so much love.
[— Miss Maria, your son is well. To be honest, I'd say he's in a state I can only call... a miracle.]
The young mother, her eyes still bright with tears, asked with a trembling voice:
[— Elder Margareth, what do you mean by "a miracle"?]
— What are they talking about? — I wondered, frustrated at not understanding a single word of that strange language.
The elder, who I now knew was named Margareth, continued with a solemn expression:
[— Miss Maria, let's be honest. Your son was stillborn. It wasn't just me who saw... you saw, and Mr. Lucius too. There was no heartbeat, no breathing. He was blue.]
She paused briefly, looked directly at me with a penetrating gaze, as if she could see beyond the physical body, opened a calm smile, and continued:
[— Your son is proof that miracles exist. No, to be frank... he is the miracle incarnate. I have never heard of a child who, born lifeless, began to breathe again after five minutes, without any intervention that would explain such a phenomenon. If this isn't a miracle, I don't know what would be.]
Maria, now holding me again in her protective arms, nodded, agreeing with every word of the elder, as if she herself could barely believe what had happened. Then Margareth continued, her voice now lighter:
[— Mr. Lucius, Miss Maria... have you decided what your son's name will be? Such a special child deserves a name worthy of his destiny.]
Maria looked at me for a few seconds, her blue eyes studying every detail of my face, as if searching for some divine sign in it. Then she turned her eyes to Lucius and, with her voice choked with emotion, but firm in her decision, replied:
[— Before, we had decided to name him Ronald, like my grandfather. But, after everything that happened today, and as the elder herself said, this was a miracle... so I decided to change his name. A new beginning deserves a new name.]
She gently squeezed me in her arms, as if to confirm that I was real, opened a smile that radiated pure and unconditional love, and concluded with a solemn voice:
[— From today on, your name will be Elian Freimann. The name means "Light" or "Grace." And that's exactly what he represents to me, and to Lucius. A light that shone when everything seemed dark, a grace granted when we had already lost hope.]
As tears of happiness still streamed down her flushed face, she hugged and kissed me with all the affection in the world, sealing that pact of eternal love between mother and son.
And, somehow, at that moment I understood, with a clarity that transcended the language barrier: from that day on, my name would be Elian... and no longer Rodrick. A new life had begun, with all its possibilities and mysteries. The man I was had died in that abandoned house, but something new had been born from those ashes.
With that comforting thought, I closed my newly opened eyes and surrendered to sleep, cradled by the maternal warmth I hadn't felt in so long.