Marek squinted at the impossibly blue sky, letting out a satisfied sigh as he leaned back against the tree. The grass beneath him was so soft it felt as if the earth itself had decided to spoil him. A gentle breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying the faint scent of something floral but not cloying. It was, he thought, the kind of day that could make even the most miserable man appreciate life—or at least a good beer.

His mind wandered, unbidden, into the realm of imagination.

“This,” Marek thought, his mental voice taking on the deep, overly serious tone of a beer commercial narrator, “is not just any meadow. This is the meadow. A meadow where a man can sit under the shade of a tree, savor the crispness of the air, and indulge in the smooth, frothy taste of a brew that makes all other brews seem like dishwater.”

The image sharpened in his mind. Himself, lounging with a pint of something golden and impossibly cold, the condensation beading perfectly on the glass. Somewhere, a dramatic lens flare caught the edge of the bottle, a gleaming promise of refreshment. The tagline practically wrote itself:

“Marek’s Brew: When the Universe Gives You a Break, Make It Count.”

He chuckled softly, amused by his own ridiculousness. “All I need now is a chair and—”

WHACK.

The stone hit him with an unceremonious thud squarely on the top of his head.

Marek didn’t have time to process much. A brief flash of indignation, a resigned thought—Not again—and then his knees buckled as his body betrayed him yet again. He swayed, stumbled, and fell forward, landing awkwardly in the grass.

The stone, for its part, was a picture of innocence. It rolled lazily into the grass in front of him, perfectly round and smooth, as though it had been sculpted by someone with a strange sense of humor.

If Marek had been capable of thought in that moment, he might have admired its simplicity. The rock didn’t gleam with embedded jewels or glow with mystical energy. It wasn’t heavy or imposing. It was just... nice. The kind of rock you might pick up on a whim and keep in your pocket because it felt good in your hand.

But Marek wasn’t thinking any of this because, moments after the impact, his world turned black.

In this darkness there was some kind of absence of sensation. The soft grass, the cool breeze, the dull ache in his head—all gone. He floated in a void so dark and quiet it felt as though the universe had taken a coffee break and left him behind.

Then came the voice.

“Ah, there you are,” it said, calm and distant, like someone greeting a late guest they didn’t particularly care about. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Marek blinked—or at least, he thought he blinked, though he wasn’t entirely sure he had eyelids at the moment. “Who’s there?” he asked, his voice echoing in the emptiness.

“Who’s there,” the voice repeated mockingly. “Such a quaint question, as if this is a polite phone call. Let me make this simple: I’m not here for introductions. You died. You’re here. I’m here. And now you’re somewhere else. Clear enough?”

Marek frowned. “No, actually, it’s not.”

The voice sighed, the kind of sigh reserved for bureaucrats dealing with very stupid forms. “Fine. You died, and you’ve been reincarnated. Happy now?”

“Reincarnated?” Marek repeated. “You mean... a second chance?”

The voice gave a short, humorless laugh. “Let’s not get carried away. This isn’t charity. You’ve been... repurposed. Reassigned. Call it what you like. Honestly, it’s not my concern.”

Marek’s frustration bubbled up. “What do you mean, not your concern? Isn’t this your job?”

“Technically,” the voice admitted. “But you’re not exactly a standard case, are you?”

Before Marek could ask what that meant, the voice continued. “You see, the process isn’t supposed to be complicated. Clean the slate, wipe away the memories, and send you on your merry way to grow into a new existence. Simple. Efficient. Elegant.”

It paused, and Marek swore he could hear the sound of someone flipping through a very large, very outdated manual.

“But you,” the voice resumed, “are a problem. Your mind is... cluttered. Stubborn. Full of unprocessed baggage and deeply unhelpful habits. We couldn’t clean you, no matter how hard we tried. There’s a reference—an anchor—that refuses to let go. And before you ask, no, I’m not explaining what it is. Just know it’s your fault.”

“My fault?” Marek snapped. “I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“No one ever does,” the voice replied, unconcerned. “But here we are.”

There was a long pause before the voice spoke again, softer this time. “Do you know why minds start clean? Why they grow step by step, like a tree adding rings? Because skipping those steps makes you unstable. Fragile. Dangerous, even. But for reasons beyond my patience to explain, we couldn’t fix you. So we had to improvise.”

“Improvise?” Marek asked warily.

“We reset your body’s age,” the voice said bluntly. “A clean slate wasn’t possible, so we gave you a... partial reset. Late teens should do. Enough to handle the challenges ahead. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” the voice chided. “You’ll figure it out. Or not. It’s not my problem anymore.”

“Wait—” Marek began, but the voice interrupted, its tone turning sharp and final.

“This world is different,” it said. “It’s magical. Chaotic. Full of opportunities, pitfalls, and things far beyond your understanding. Survive if you can. Change if you must. Or don’t. Just... try to be less of a mess this time.”

The darkness began to dissolve, but before it completely faded, the voice added, almost as an afterthought:

“And one last thing—I only work Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays. So, if you plan to die again, do it on a different day. Let’s not meet like this again.”

The words hung in the air as Marek felt himself falling, not physically but in the way dreams dissolve into waking reality. The light of the new world began to bleed through, bringing with it the unwelcome sensation of consciousness.