That day, the sky was clear, clean, with a few clouds drifting slowly in the warm spring breeze. The neighborhood park, simple but welcoming, was full of children's voices, laughter, and quirks being displayed like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Seeing that no longer shocked me. Accepting reality had become a habit. The more you see, the more you get used to it. But understanding… understanding is another story.
Childhood, for someone who is reborn conscious, is a golden prison. On the outside, everything looks peaceful, even cute. But inside, it's claustrophobic—limited by muscles that don't respond as they should, by vocal cords that barely articulate, by adults who look at you like you're just a fragile and innocent little creature. They have no idea who's really in here.
Today, my mom brought me to the park. We sat together on a wooden bench shaded by a strong tree while I held a strawberry ice cream, watching the world around me.
To my eyes, from within this infant shell, everything around me felt like an absurd play. A teenager levitating metal while showing off to some girls. An old woman leaving glowing trails on the ground with her feet. A man with a stone arm laughing as if it were just another day at work.
Then time… stopped.
A searing pain struck my eyes, like someone trying to carve something into them with a knife.
Laughter ceased. Voices, wind, even the sound of the wooden spoon tapping my ice cream cup disappeared. As if someone had pressed an invisible button.
And then, they appeared.
Golden symbols, lightly pulsing in the air. Ancient letters that felt… divine. A language I had never seen before, like circuitry from a machine forgotten by gods, or inscriptions from a cosmic tongue. They danced in front of me—and inside me. I understood them—and didn't—at the same time.
I didn't know what it was, but if my guess was right, it had something to do with my quirk.
Then everything returned.
Sound, heat, the breeze, the world.
My mom was looking at me, worried.
"Haruki? Are you okay?"
"Yeah…" I replied, pretending to stay calm, but still feeling the echo of those symbols burning in my mind. And the persistent ache in my eyes, like something wanted to break free—only now, it was quieter.
I had experienced this event five times before, not counting this one. Each time they appeared, they lasted longer than the last. And the pain grew. At first, it was like a tiny itch. Then like a shot. And so on.
My mom kept watching me, her green eyes like spring leaves trying to pierce the silence between us. I took another lick of my ice cream, the sweet and cold flavor clashing with the heat still pulsing behind my eyes.
"You suddenly got quiet," she said, tucking a pink strand of hair behind her ear. "Are you really okay, Haruki?"
I nodded slightly. "Yeah. I was just... thinking."
She chuckled gently, the kind of laugh that smelled like cherry blossoms—literally, in her case.
"Thinking about what, Mr. Three-and-a-Half-Year-Old Philosopher?"
I let the silence stretch a little before answering.
"That boy… the one levitating metal."
She followed my gaze to the show-off teenager from earlier.
"Oh, him? Must be some magnetic-type quirk. Impressive, huh?"
"It's interesting," I said, choosing my words carefully. "But... there's something off about it. The way the field behaves, the vectors… it's not pure magnetism. Maybe something else. Some slight gravitational interference or vector control. I'm still thinking."
She stared at me silently, blinking slowly. The scent around us shifted subtly to a confused jasmine.
"Haruki… sometimes you speak like an adult."
I lowered my eyes.
"Because I think like one."
She smiled, but there was tension behind that smile. Her hand reached up slowly, running through my hair with care.
"You're special. I've always known that. But be a kid too, okay? It's okay to try to understand the world… just don't get lost in it."
I wanted to say that it was inevitable. That I was already lost. But I stayed quiet.
Because I had understood long ago something unavoidable: my mind no longer fit inside this childhood. The brilliance I carried, cultivated in another life, in another body, wasn't something I could suppress.
The walk home was quiet, but the silence between us carried a subtle weight. My mother walked beside me with soft steps, holding my hand with the same sweetness as always. The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the sidewalk, and cherry blossom petals drifted down slowly, as if time was still out of sync with reality.
With each step, the golden symbols that had appeared earlier returned to my thoughts. Not like a memory, but like a constant presence. They were still there, dormant. Waiting. Waiting for what, exactly?
"Do you want to take a bath when we get home, or have a snack first?" she asked, without looking at me, as if trying to distract her own thoughts with routine.
"I'd rather bathe first," I answered, looking at the ground, where a withered flower lay alone.
We entered the house soon after. The door slid open with a soft creak, and the familiar scent of flowers from my mother's studio filled the air. Rose, lavender, jasmine. The home was small, simple, but held a harmony built through time and affection. A tiny world, safe… but limited.
I went upstairs silently to the bathroom. The warm water ran over my skin as I stared at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. My dark brown eyes looked the same as always, but now I knew there was something different behind them. Something no one else could see.
I touched my eyelids with the tip of my fingers, as if I could find some trace of what had happened in the park. Nothing. But still, I knew. The awakening had begun.
When I got out of the bath, my mom had already left a change of clothes folded on the bed. I thanked her with a quiet nod and got dressed slowly. The house's silence felt heavier now. Maybe it was just a reflection of what was happening inside me.
I sat on the bedroom floor and began to draw. It was something I did often. Not because I wanted to be an artist, but because my mind needed to turn ideas into forms. And without thinking, I began sketching the symbols. Not exactly as I'd seen them—my hand couldn't yet capture those perfect curves and lines—but instinct guided the pencil.
They were coming again.
They wanted to be remembered. Recorded. Understood.
And I… I was going to answer them.