In a vast mansion blanketed in ivy and tangled vines, nestled among the rolling green hills of a medieval kingdom, silence reigned. The house, grand and noble, once echoed with laughter and life. But now, only a soft breeze stirred the curtains in a quiet room upstairs.
Inside, a boy lay motionless on a grand bed carved of ancient oak. He was twenty-one, with clear, almost crystalline eyes that stared into nothing. His skin, pale and nearly translucent, clung to frail bones. If one listened closely, they'd hear nothing—no breath, no heartbeat. Krishna was dead.
But his death wasn't dramatic. It wasn't bloodied on a battlefield or lost in a lover's quarrel. It was quiet. A surrender.
He hadn't died from the disease that had slowly eaten away at his body. Nor from the loneliness that wrapped itself around his soul like chains. He died from something far crueler—kindness. A kindness so pure that the world, in its twisted state, saw it as weakness.
He had always smiled when others needed help. He gave without expecting anything in return. He lent money to friends who called him "brother," believing their empty promises. He loved a girl with everything he had, dreaming of a future where they would grow old together.
But none of them saw Krishna. Not truly. Not as a person. He was a resource—an easy target, a fool with a generous heart. They drained him until there was nothing left, not even the strength to hope.
In his final days, his body grew cold, but colder still was his spirit. The mansion, a place that should have been filled with warmth, became a tomb. Behind locked doors, he cried alone—his sobs muffled by silk pillows. No one knocked. No one noticed. No one cared.
He dreamt of the life he wanted.
A small home, tucked away in the countryside. A garden with wildflowers. A wife he could love wholly, gently. Cooking for her every day. Children who would laugh and chase each other under the sun. Holding their little hands, walking them to school. Building a world of safety and affection.
But dreams were all he had. Reality offered him nothing but betrayal.
On the final night, his breathing grew shallow. The disease had won. And yet, even in his final moments, a tear slid down his cheek—not from pain, but from the sorrow of a life unlived. A whisper escaped his lips, barely audible:
"Why was I born kind... if kindness was the reason I died?"
Then—silence.
Darkness.
And then... light.
Not the light of the sun or a torch. Something else. Something warm, infinite, and divine.
A strange chime echoed in his mind, soft and melodic like the first notes of a harp.
[Congratulations! You have successfully awakened as a Helper]
[Best wishes for your next Life]
[Reincarnation in processing...]
[Congratulations, you have successfully reincarnated]
Krishna's consciousness stirred.
He expected nothing. Not a heaven. Not even a void. Yet, he felt... present.
There was no body, no voice, no eyes to open. Just awareness. Floating. Light surrounded him, folding around him like a mother's embrace.
And then—cold. Wetness. Noise.
The sounds came first. Muffled at first, like underwater echoes. Then clearer.
A woman's voice, soft and trembling, yet filled with joy:
"Congratulations! It's a boy!"
Another voice, rougher but brimming with warmth and disbelief:
"Babe, look at him. He looks just like you."
His body jerked slightly. Something warm touched his cheek.
"Don't touch me," Krishna wanted to say, but all that came out was a weak whimper. "Not again... don't touch my face unless you mean it. Please..."
But this touch wasn't rough. It was gentle. Tender. It didn't feel like someone taking from him. It felt like someone... giving.
His eyes, still unable to open, fluttered. The world was a blur—a flood of strange lights, shadows, colors too bright, too vivid. It took days for vision to come, and even then, everything felt surreal.
What was this place?
Gone were the candle-lit halls of the mansion. Gone were the stone walls and faded portraits. Instead, he saw things his old world couldn't imagine—machines that moved without horses, glowing boxes with people inside them, voices speaking through thin air.
But more than the sights, what overwhelmed him was the feeling.
There weren't crowds of guests, no extended family visiting to fake concern. Only two people by his side. Every day. Without fail.
A woman with tired but loving eyes—his mother. A man with a commanding presence but a warm smile—his father.
They didn't ignore him. They didn't forget him. They were... there.
And it broke something in Krishna.
In his old life, his father only visited when he was sick or when it was politically convenient. His mother smiled for the sake of appearances. Their words were empty, formal. "Honor" and "legacy" always came before love.
But here...
His mother carried him against her chest and hummed lullabies with no audience. His father fed him, bathed him, even made him laugh. Their touches weren't performances—they were real.
One morning, as the sunlight streamed through the window and danced across his crib, Krishna opened his eyes fully. Not blurred, not hazy—but clear.
His tiny fingers curled into fists as the realization hit him.
This is real.
He wasn't dreaming. He had been born again.
And this time, he was wanted.
Tears welled up in his eyes—not from sadness, but from something he had never truly felt before.
Safety.
He blinked slowly. His lips parted in a soft smile, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. His soul, battered and bruised in his past life, now soaked in the warmth of a family that held no expectations, no manipulation, no hidden motives.
Only love.
As his mother leaned down and kissed his forehead, he gazed up at her. His blue eyes shimmered, not just with light—but with something far deeper:
Hope.
And in the depth of his soul, in a place beyond words and time, something stirred.
A voice.
"Welcome back, Justice Keeper."
The days passed like feathers drifting in a gentle breeze. Krishna, once broken by the cruelty of the world, was now wrapped in a cocoon of warmth—a miracle he could never have imagined in his previous life.
Though his body was new, his soul was ancient, weary from the scars of betrayal. But here, in this new home nestled within the Alaskan wilderness, he was slowly beginning to heal.
At 10 months old, Krishna began to crawl. Not clumsily, like most infants, but with quiet curiosity—his bright blue eyes always scanning, always questioning.
Everywhere he looked, he saw things that defied the logic of his old world. Tall machines that hummed with energy. Metallic beasts on wheels that roared and moved without horses. Walls that glowed when touched. Moving pictures that told stories. It was a strange land, a futuristic paradise far removed from the crumbling medieval kingdom he once called home.
His mother, Clara, was always nearby, her presence as constant as the morning light. She laughed often, the kind of laugh that melted cold hearts. She watched movies with him, laying him on her lap or holding him close as she stretched out on the couch. Sometimes, he'd press his face into her thigh, clinging to her like a lifeline. She'd stroke his back with gentle fingers and whisper, "You're my little blessing, Krishna."
He'd never felt this safe before. In his previous life, his mother's affection was always accompanied by demands or expectations. Here, her love had no price tag.
And then there was Julia—his older sister.
Two years his senior, she had the strength of a farm girl and the heart of a guardian angel. She would cradle him in her arms, letting him fall asleep in her lap while she played with his hair. Her hands were always warm, her embrace always patient. She never seemed annoyed by his cries or his questions. She adored him like the most precious treasure she'd ever been given.
One day, while lying on the living room floor beside her, he pointed at the glowing box on the wall—the television.
"Whass...dat?" he babbled, his voice tiny but full of curiosity.
Julia giggled. "It's called a movie, silly."
He tilted his head. "Movie?"
"Yeah," she whispered, bending down to kiss his cheek, "you'll understand soon, baby brother."
And then came the memory—the one his parents would never forget.
---
It was a bright spring morning when Clara took the kids on a road trip to the southern states. Robert, their father, had been called in for a special duty—something FBI-related, though he rarely shared the details. His job was dangerous, but he always came home with a smile, never letting the weight of his responsibilities dim his joy around the kids.
On that day, Clara, Krishna, and Julia happened to spot him near the roadside—talking to another officer about an ongoing case.
Julia, ever the big sister, handed Krishna a juice shake she had picked up from a stall.
"Here, you thirsty little goblin," she said playfully.
But Krishna's eyes weren't on the drink. They were fixed on a figure in the distance.
"Dad!" he shouted, wobbling on his tiny legs, the juice in one hand.
He started running, full of joy, towards Robert.
But then—chaos.
An old man carrying a heavy sack of vegetables stumbled onto the road, collapsing just a few feet away from Krishna.
Krishna froze.
He looked at his father—just a few steps ahead.
Then back at the man, groaning in pain.
Without a word, Krishna turned. His small hands dropped the juice to the ground. He ran to the old man, kneeled beside him, and began shaking his shoulder with all the urgency a toddler could muster.
"Grandpa! Are you okay?" he cried.
Robert, watching from a distance, had seen everything. His chest tightened as he rushed forward, scooping the old man up into his arms.
Krishna, meanwhile, bent down and gathered the scattered vegetables, placing them back into the sack with clumsy determination. Once finished, he picked up the juice—now a little dusty—and offered it to the old man with outstretched hands.
"Grandpa… drink," he said softly.
The old man, touched beyond words, ruffled Krishna's hair and smiled.
"There is still hope in this world," the old man whispered, his eyes glistening. He handed Krishna a ripe fruit from his sack—a simple gift. Then he walked away with a lighter heart.
Robert stood there, unable to move.
He had seen criminals lie, politicians deceive, and entire systems crumble.
But in that moment—watching his tiny son choose kindness over personal joy—Robert felt something break inside him.
Pride.
Overwhelming pride.
His eyes misted, and a quiet whisper escaped his lips: "That's my boy."
---
On the drive back to Alaska, Clara glanced into the rear-view mirror, watching Krishna play with the fruit.
"Krishna," she asked with a smile, "why didn't you give the shake to your dad?"
Krishna, nestled beside Julia, answered with the innocence of a saint.
"Mom… you said we should help people who need help. Daddy already has everything. That Grandpa… he didn't have anything."
Clara didn't respond immediately. She reached up, wiped a tear, and turned her eyes back to the road.
"I will never question your heart again," she whispered.
---
Life on the farm was simple but sweet. The apple trees blossomed in the summer and slept under blankets of snow in winter. The family would sit under the trees during warm days, basking in sunlight, enjoying picnics with sandwiches, fruits, and stories.
One afternoon, as they sat beneath a tree, Krishna looked up at his mother and asked:
"Mom… why are you brown and we're not?"
Clara laughed softly and pulled him onto her lap.
"Because I'm the warmest one in this family," she teased, tickling him.
"But seriously," she said, brushing his hair, "you'll learn everything in time. About me. About you. About the world."
He nodded, accepting it for now.