Chapter 2: A Second Chance?

  The first thing Miguel became aware of was noise—not quite hearing it, but feeling it resonate somewhere in the recesses of his mind. It wasn’t the comforting hum of familiarity; it was strange, foreign, and intrusive. Rushing water, soft knocking, and an odd, rhythmic gurgling filled the void where his mind had rested for what felt like an eternity. For a moment, Miguel wondered if he had simply imagined it.

  But then came the light.

  It hit him like a punch to the face—blinding, intense, and painfully sharp. Miguel winced internally, feeling a jolt of panic. His first coherent thought was bitterly sarcastic: Great. I didn’t escape the prison of life just to get blinded in the afterlife.

  As the brightness burned away the darkness, voices emerged. Muffled at first, they gradually became clearer, though their words meant nothing to him. They were sharp, quick, and melodic, spoken in a language he didn’t recognize. Panic prickled at the edges of his mind. Who are they? Where am I?

  Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the light, and he became aware of a presence—no, two. Just inches from his face hovered a woman with striking red curls, her green eyes watching him with a mix of curiosity and concern. Her freckled face was flushed with life, and her lips curled into a small, amused smile.

  Miguel did the only logical thing his frazzled brain could come up with: he screamed.

  The woman blinked, startled, and then let out a laugh—rich, warm, and annoyingly pleasant. She turned to speak to someone behind her, a rapid exchange of that strange, melodic language. Miguel tried to focus, but the syllables tumbled over each other, foreign and incomprehensible.

  “Who—what—what’s going on?” Miguel croaked, his voice weak and scratchy. But as he tried to sit up, something felt… wrong. His limbs felt oddly short, his body light and unfamiliar. His hands caught his attention first—tiny, pale, and soft, like those of a child.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, staring at his hands as if they were alien objects.

  Then realization struck like a thunderbolt. “What did you do to me?! What is this?!” His voice cracked into a high-pitched squeal that embarrassed him immediately.

  The red-haired woman turned back to him, smiling as though she hadn’t just ripped him from the void and dumped him into this bizarre situation. She bent down, her movements deliberate but not unkind, and scooped him up with surprising ease.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  “Hey! Put me down! I’m a grown man—” Miguel paused mid-shout as his voice betrayed him again, thin and shrill. “This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening!”

  The woman didn’t seem to care about his protests. She cradled him against her chest as if he weighed nothing, her hands steady and sure. Miguel flailed weakly, but it was no use. His body didn’t feel like his own—too small, too fragile.

  The woman murmured something softly in her strange language, her tone soothing. Then she turned and carried him across the room, where a second figure came into view. A dark-haired woman lay on a bed, her skin pale but glowing with warmth. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of their approach, and a tired smile spread across her face.

  The red-haired woman spoke to her in the same melodic tongue, her words quick and cheerful. She gently placed Miguel into the bed beside the dark-haired woman, tucking him into the crook of her arm like he belonged there.

  “Wait, what are you doing? Who is she?!” Miguel demanded, though his voice had lost much of its strength.

  The dark-haired woman’s face was close now, her features soft and delicate. Her dark eyes shimmered with emotion as she looked at him, and she reached out a hand to brush his cheek. Miguel froze. Her touch was warm, tender, and completely disarming.

  This wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right.

  “Stop that!” he barked, though his voice came out more like a petulant whimper. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?!”

  Neither woman answered. The red-haired one laughed again, while the dark-haired one hummed a gentle tune, her voice low and soothing. Miguel felt his body relax against his will, the soft bed and warm touch pulling him into an unfamiliar sense of comfort.

  He glanced around the room, his eyes catching details now that the initial shock was fading. The walls were made of rough-hewn stone, glowing faintly from an unseen source of light. Strange symbols were etched into the stone in spiraling patterns, pulsing faintly like living veins. The air smelled of herbs and earth, tinged with a faint metallic tang.

  This wasn’t Earth.

  Miguel’s breath quickened. “This isn’t real. I’m dead. I’m supposed to be dead!” he whispered, as much to himself as to anyone else.

  His gaze shifted back to the dark-haired woman. She had delicate features, a strong but kind jawline, and soft, slightly chapped lips. Her raven-black hair was braided into a loose plait, and her warm brown eyes held a depth of emotion he didn’t understand. She looked at him like a mother looks at her child—with unconditional love.

  “No,” Miguel muttered, shaking his head. “I’m not… I’m not your…”

  But the warmth of the bed, the soothing hum of the dark-haired woman’s voice, and the gentle, rhythmic stroking of her hand against his cheek were too much for his frazzled mind to resist. Against his will, his eyes grew heavy, and sleep began to pull him under.

  His last thought before unconsciousness claimed him was bitter and tinged with reluctant curiosity:

  If this is a second chance, it’s the worst one ever. Who do I have to complain to about this mess?