That’s when I felt gentle hands on my shoulders. A woman’s voice, soft and urgent, spoke a string of words I couldn’t fully understand—but I caught the tone. Concern. Kindness. I forced my eyes open and saw her kneeling beside me. She was slender, her clothes patched and faded. A simple braid fell across one shoulder. Despite her humble appearance, her expression radiated genuine worry.

She tried asking me something. I opened my mouth, but only a hoarse croak escaped. She didn’t wait for an answer. Slipping an arm around me, she helped me to my feet—or rather, she supported my sagging weight as best she could. I managed a shaky step, then another, my vision fading in and out.

I think I mumbled something like “Thank you” in my old language, though my mind was so jumbled I can’t be sure. She guided me along a side path, away from the crowded part of the village. My head lolled, my feet scraped the ground. Any second now, I’m going to lose consciousness, I thought.

Eventually, we reached a small cottage. From the outside, it was little more than a run-down hut with a thatched roof. A crooked wooden door, a tiny yard littered with buckets, a fence that looked ready to collapse—it wasn’t exactly inviting. But it was warm. I could see a faint glow through the single window, and the smell of something savory made my stomach gurgle so loudly I blushed.

Inside, she guided me to a rickety stool near a wobbly table. I nearly collapsed onto it, my entire body shaking from exhaustion and hunger. The woman rummaged through her cupboards—there weren’t many—and produced a small bowl of stew, setting it before me alongside a chunk of stale bread. The aroma hit me like a lifeline. Without thinking, I grabbed the spoon and began to eat, tears of gratitude soaking my cheeks.

I expected her to pull the bowl away or scold me for devouring her food without permission, but she didn’t. She just hovered, frowning with concern, refilling my cup with water every time I drained it. When I finally looked up—my stomach no longer twisting in agony—our eyes met. Her gaze was warm, relieved. She said something in a soft tone, which I took as, “It’s okay. Eat. You’re safe.”

Shelter and Questions

That night, I must have fallen asleep right there at the table because the next thing I knew, she was covering me with a thin blanket on a pile of straw in the corner. I only caught a glimpse of the cottage’s simple furnishings: a lantern flickering on the table, a stack of papers near a small shelf of tattered books. It smelled like ink and old parchment, mixed with the herbal scent of whatever stew she’d been cooking.

Exhaustion claimed me, pulling me under like a heavy tide. My dreams were a swirl of bright office lights blending into scenes of dark forest canopy. I heard my boss’s voice morphing into the screeches of some wild creature. It was all surreal and terrifying, but at least I wasn’t out in the open, exposed to the elements.

The next time I woke, the woman was seated at the table, writing something on a sheet of paper. My body still ached, but the immediate edge of hunger was gone. The moment she noticed me stir, she rose and offered me another bowl—hot broth this time, thin but flavorful enough to make my mouth water. I inhaled it without shame, tears pricking at my eyes again. I couldn’t recall the last time someone had shown me such compassion, even in my old life.

Later, she tried speaking to me. I caught some words that sounded like introductions, but my comprehension was spotty at best. Her name, I gathered, was Mari—or something close to that—and she was a teacher in this village. The scattered papers and books suddenly made sense. She looked at me as if to ask, “Who are you?” and my heart clenched. Because honestly, who was I in this world? My old name and life felt distant, like a memory belonging to someone else.

I attempted to respond, mixing the words she’d taught me with bits of my old language. “I…do not…know,” I mumbled, feeling heat rise to my cheeks in frustration. She placed a comforting hand on my arm, her expression understanding. With gentle patience, she started pointing at objects in the room—table, door, book, teacher—repeating the words in her language until I echoed them back. We spent hours like that, my tongue fumbling over strange syllables.

I was struck by her kindness. Most of the village had treated me like a pariah. But Mari, living in what was clearly near-poverty herself, welcomed me in without hesitation. She was saving me with the little she had.

Accepting a New Reality

In the following days, I slowly regained some strength. I helped Mari with minor tasks—sweeping the floor, fetching water from the well—though I was clumsy at first. She’d only shake her head with a soft laugh and correct my mistakes. I watched her teach a handful of village children in the mornings, the younger ones practicing their letters, the older ones learning sums. Often, they’d stare at me, the strange boy who spoke awkwardly. But Mari encouraged them to be patient, just as she was.

I began to make sense of the language bit by bit. It wasn’t exactly like anything I’d known before, yet some words felt strangely intuitive, as though I’d half-remembered them from a distant dream. Perhaps my new body had some latent understanding of this world’s tongue—an odd thought, but then again, nothing about my situation was ordinary.

As I recovered, the question that haunted me was why. Why did I leave behind the drudgery of my old world only to end up nearly starving to death here? Was there a purpose to this strange rebirth? Or was I just the universe’s punching bag, yanked from one miserable reality to another? Whenever doubt tugged at my thoughts, I’d glance over at Mari, busily explaining the alphabet to a group of children. Her kindness reminded me that maybe this world was offering me a second chance—one that wouldn’t be easy, but could be worthwhile if I held on.

I also realized something crucial: I had a choice now. I could wallow in self-pity over my bizarre predicament or I could accept that this was my life and move forward. My old world was gone; there was no point in clinging to it. The forest that nearly swallowed me was behind me. I was safe, at least for the moment, under a thatched roof in a quiet village.

At night, lying on the straw bed with a thin blanket over my shoulders, I felt a calm I hadn’t experienced in years. In my previous life, I never knew a single day without that underlying current of stress—emails, deadlines, rent, bills. Here, I worried about survival in more immediate terms—food, shelter—but in Mari’s cottage, those fears subsided. She took care of me without a second thought, and for that, I owed her everything.

A Glimmer of Hope

One evening, she asked me again—kindly but insistently—about who I was and where I came from. I stumbled through an explanation: I told her I had no home, no family that I knew of, and had wandered into the village. She seemed to accept that, though I wondered if she sensed there was more to my story than I could articulate. In truth, how could I tell her I came from a world of computers and skyscrapers? That seemed more outlandish than any fairy tale.

She only nodded and said a word that roughly translated to “child” or “boy.” Then, with a gentle pat on my arm, she gestured around her cottage, saying something to the effect of, “Stay. Learn. I will teach you.” Her meaning was unmistakable. She was offering me a place here—at least for now—and a chance to understand the world I’d been thrust into.

That night, before drifting to sleep, I found myself smiling for the first time since this nightmare and miracle began. I was still confused, still uncertain. But I wasn’t alone anymore. Mari, a poor village teacher with a heart bigger than the forests around us, had given me hope when I was at my lowest.

Tomorrow Begins

So I let go of the last vestiges of denial. I accepted that I was in a new world, a new body—a new life. The roads ahead might be rougher than I could imagine, but for the first time, I felt a stirring of determination in my chest. In my old world, I’d let despair and routine lock me into a cycle of meaningless days. Here, if I was truly starting over, I wanted to be someone better. Someone who wouldn’t waste the chance fate had thrust upon me.

Morning light streamed into the cottage as I rose from the straw bed, my muscles still sore. I stretched, inhaling the earthy scent of our humble home, and prepared to face the new day. There was a lot to learn: the language, the culture, how to earn a living in a place without computers or coffee machines. But at least I had Mari, guiding me with a kindness I’d never forget.

I had awakened in this modest village—lost, confused, and nearly broken. And yet, in the eyes of a compassionate teacher, I found a spark that could guide me forward. This, I realized, was truly the start of my second life. And for whatever reason the universe decided to give me this opportunity, I swore I wouldn’t let it go to waste.