Marek awoke slowly, as if peeling himself out of a particularly stubborn dream. The sun was bright, aggressively cheerful, and the birds were chirping with what could only be described as smug enthusiasm. He groaned and sat up, rubbing his temples.

His first thought was simple: What just happened?

The strange darkness, the voice, the cryptic explanation about reincarnation and “not my problem”—it all felt surreal, like something out of a fever dream. Yet here he was, on the same soft grass, the world still unnaturally vibrant, and the stone still resting innocently beside him.

Marek stared at it for a moment before picking it up. The smooth surface felt cool against his fingers, its weight oddly reassuring.

That’s when he noticed the faint markings. Tilting it in the light, he could just make out the word “Change.” It was clear, etched in clean lines... until it wasn’t.

He blinked, squinting at the stone. The word shimmered and shifted, dissolving into a mess of squiggles that refused to make sense.

“Great,” Marek muttered. “Even the rocks here don’t make sense.” He slipped it into his pocket, stood up, and surveyed his surroundings.

The field stretched out endlessly in every direction, rolling hills dotted with flowers and swaying grass. It was picturesque, the kind of place you’d see on the cover of a calendar in a dentist’s office.

“And no cows,” Marek observed aloud. “Which makes it even nicer.”

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, Marek’s boots struck something solid—packed dirt, unmistakably a road. It was narrow and uneven, barely more than a trail, but it was clearly meant for travel.

“Finally,” Marek said, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. “Roads mean civilization. Civilization means people. And people... well, people are usually trouble, but they might also have food.”

He started walking, following the road as it twisted gently through the hills. After a short distance, he spotted a wooden sign planted crookedly in the ground.

The sign was old, its paint peeling in places, but still legible:

• Left: Bramble Hollow

• Right: Stonestep

Marek tilted his head, considering the options. “Bramble Hollow sounds like a place where someone’s grandmother makes pies and lectures you about your manners. Stonestep... solid, dependable, like a rock.” He paused. “Or maybe it’s just more rocks.”

With a shrug, Marek turned right. Stonestep it was.

The walk started peacefully enough. The air was clean, the sky impossibly blue, and the grass so vibrant it almost hurt to look at. Marek found himself relaxing, letting his mind wander.

He thought of his first welding job, the thrill of coaxing metal to bend to his will. The memory of sparks dancing in the dim light felt oddly comforting. But as always, the memory of the rock followed close behind.

That damned rock. The dull thud, the flash of pain, the sky spinning overhead—it was like a guest that refused to leave the party.

Pulling the stone from his pocket, Marek turned it over in his hand. “You’re mocking me,” he muttered.

The stone, naturally, said nothing. But if it could, Marek was certain it would’ve been smug.

As the sun climbed higher, Marek’s pace slowed. His body felt fine—better than fine, really—but his mind was starting to itch. His fingers twitched, his lips pursed, and his thoughts wandered to cigarettes.

“A smoke,” Marek mumbled. “What I wouldn’t give for a damn smoke.”

His new body didn’t know the craving, but his mind did, and it was relentless. It conjured the taste, the burn, the calming weight of nicotine in his lungs.

“Of course,” he muttered bitterly, “new life, same old habits. What’s next? The urge to find a bar?”

His thoughts spiraled from there, one leading to another in a long, disjointed chain. For most people, these musings would’ve lasted minutes. For Marek, they stretched into something much longer, his mind circling back to the same memories over and over, as if they were caught in an endless loop.

By the time Marek reached the outskirts of Stonestep, the sun hung low in the sky, draping the modest settlement in warm, golden light. A cluster of wooden buildings stood ahead, smoke curling from a few chimneys, their weathered walls bathed in the soft glow of dusk. Figures moved in the distance, tending to their end-of-day tasks.

Marek stopped. His boots dug into the dirt, and he stared.

The villagers noticed him almost immediately. A stranger standing at the edge of the settlement, unmoving, silent—it was enough to stir the kind of suspicion that small communities are famous for.

“Who is that?” one man muttered, leaning over the fence.

“An idiot, maybe,” a woman said, adjusting a basket on her hip. “What kind of fool stands there like that? He’s been staring for ages.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” an older man grumbled. “Could be trouble.”

The murmurs continued, the villagers’ opinions hardening with every passing minute. To them, Marek had the appearance of someone who was either lost, mad, or up to no good.

But there was always one exception.

Marek, oblivious to the attention, was drowning in his own thoughts. What had started as a casual observation of the village had spiraled into a labyrinth of memories and reflections.

His brain felt overburdened, like an ancient machine tasked with running modern software. The weight of seventy years of memories, emotions, and experiences pressed against his mind, far too much for a body barely into its twenties to handle.

He didn’t notice the strain. To him, it felt like a mild headache, a background hum that he could ignore. But his mind was overheating, bogged down by the sheer volume of things to process.

And then, like a safety valve, the memory came again: the rock. The sharp, clear moment of impact that jarred his thoughts to a halt. It was absurdly effective, forcing his scattered mind to reset and refocus.

Marek blinked, shaking his head slightly as if clearing away cobwebs. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed or that he’d been standing still for over half an hour.

Most of the villagers had already dismissed Marek, deciding he was either mad, lost, or some peculiar mix of both. But one man, standing apart from the settlement, watched him with quiet interest.

The man wasn’t a villager—his worn boots and travel-stained cloak marked him as a wanderer. His face, framed by a grizzled beard, carried the deep lines of someone who thought far too much for far too long. Yet his eyes were sharp, curious, and tinged with something almost playful.

“Funny,” the man muttered to himself, tilting his head as he observed Marek’s unmoving figure. “Standing still for so long... there’s a certain genius to that. Or madness. Probably both.”

He chuckled softly, an oddly comforting sound. “Being crazy for a time keeps me sane for longer,” he mused, nodding as if confirming a profound truth to himself.

There was something about this stranger—this Marek—that tugged at his instincts. A faint, intangible sense that this peculiar figure wasn’t just standing idly but waiting, like a key waiting to unlock something hidden.

With a slow, deliberate step, the man walked toward Marek. “Oi,” he called, his voice tinged with warmth and mischief. “You planning to let the grass grow under your feet, or are you coming along?”

Marek stirred, his dazed gaze focusing on the approaching figure. He blinked, unsure what to make of this oddly cheerful man—but thank the heavens there was no time to think, or he might have stood there for another half an hour.

He took a tentative step forward.

The old man smiled faintly as Marek followed. “My name is...” he began, his voice carrying a sense of calm curiosity.