My memory returned not in the form of a complete story, but fragments of visuals and mumbled words, all blurred like dream fragments from a too-long sleep. There was no context, no names, just snippets of activity that felt unfamiliar but still left faint traces of the emotions that once existed.
First there was the smell of warm milk and the soft sound of a cow bleating softly. Small hands (not mine), too light, too weak, he—me, trying to milk the metal bucket. The movements are cautious at first, then smooth once started. The morning sunlight filtered through the roof of the rickety-looking wooden shed, illuminating my dull black hair with tiny working arms. No one was watching, and there was no pressure in the form of orders.
Then came another flash: the forest. Not in the exotic beauty that most people imagine, but a place full of thorny bushes, sticking roots, and wild animals that lurk silently. The child's body, I feel-walked down the path with alert eyes, picking up twigs and logs that could be burned. At first glance it feels cold, whether because of the air or because of incomplete memories; there is a deep slice of boredom. Not the boredom of inactivity, but of repetition so constant that the brain no longer needs to think. It just moves, executing the script that has been written by society's narrative.
Another piece followed. There... A small plot of land is planted with vegetable crops. I squatted down to chase away the pests that were ruining the leaves. My hands were dirty, my nails were covered in dirt, and my skin was covered in insect bites. But there was no expression of anger or torment, just... Focus, and silence. He knows what to do, and does it without question. Because there is no transition period between "not old enough" and "already having to work", there is no concept of freedom or choice.
Then another glimpse, sharper this time: a large jug was brought to the river. The river was clear, but full of large rocks with a swift flow. The child almost slipped while trying to fill the container, and my feet lost their footing. But what's most interesting to me about this memory is him; not panicking, not crying, just gripping the jug tighter and trying to stand up again. As if, the only important thing in his life was not spilling the water.
Also, she came every day, a girl... Very small, they grew up together. Her hair was worn straight and unadorned, simple yet still exuding a sense of grace. Her bright purple color was striking in its softness, blending beautifully with her pale porcelain skin. Simple. Beautiful. Someone precious?
And I who was now trapped in this body could only analyze slowly, putting the pieces together without really understanding fully. There are no clues that explain who I am now, or why this body refuses to remember everything in one whole narrative. One thing was certain, the pattern of this life could be immediately recognized, and its form was very clear: low caste, commoner life.
I was nobody, but also somebody. Not born at the top, but high enough not to have to crawl. My house wasn't luxurious, but it wasn't cramped either. My parents weren't important figures, but they had connections. Clothes were always clean, education came regularly, and dinner came without waiting for a discount. I wasn't a genius, but things came easily to me, either through talent or perseverance. I just had that; and honestly, it was too much; the world gave me a path, and I treaded it not by struggling desperately, but by removing not-so-big rocks. Even when entering the world of law, my path wasn't forcibly opened; it just needed to be pushed a little, and the door opened.
But precisely because of that, things quickly became boring. Too straight, too obvious, too light to feel worthwhile. Every success felt like a checklist, not an achievement. Clients came and went, cases were closed or postponed, and I just moved from one comfortable chair to the next. Anything I called a "fight" was more often just a game of diplomacy, not a life-and-death risk.
And just like the last morning of that ordinary day; I don't even remember the smell of the air. I'd only come to collect food money from a client, though of course his bedtime stories were quite entertaining. Then... A man, dressed in a janitor's uniform, his rough hands clutching something behind his pockets; I recognized that face in an instant, the father of the victim in my last case. The woman who would rather die than submit, the case was over (at least in the eyes of the law).
But the law is not the final line for everyone. He didn't speak. His hands were shaking, and before I could move, the cylindrical metal muzzle was already raised.
Darkness.
Not pain. Not blood. Not screams. Just pitch black, and the sound of steps moving away, slowly but surely. Like the echo of an endless hallway that I could never catch up with.
Afterward? Not death, not life. Just fragments of a dream like a feverish high: random numbers, abstract shapes, a sense of formlessness. I know it's not hell, but there's not a hint of heaven in it. Maybe it's just... Sentence lines that haven't been filled with words; a pause between chapters, but the next page feels like a book from a different genre.
The fragments of memory offer no enlightenment. There was no chronological structure, no logical thread that I could pull straight as usual. But my brain, my main working tool for decades, couldn't just take the chaos for granted. I started concluding as best I could; analyzing, comparing, and trying to make a whole puzzle set out of the flawed and unfamiliar pieces.
At first I thought it was just a neurological illusion; the brain's capacity for severe boredom like that of a paralyzed patient, unable to hear or see, and creating an internal world out of fragments of life experience. The thing was too much detail for a dream, too consistent for a hallucination. It's not a sensory distortion like when the body is stricken with a fever or when the brain is deprived of oxygen. It's... structured. Real, but not the reality I know.
Part of me wants to reject all of this, after all supernatural scenarios are impossible; there's no room for them in law or logic. But if a puzzle has a form that cannot be explained by the old laws, perhaps what needs to change is my understanding of the new system?
A few concepts surfaced in my mind; not as beliefs, but rather as alternative possibilities. Reincarnation; one soul moving from vessel to vessel after death, living a new life without the old memories... Although in my case, the memories had not completely vanished. Then there's trance; an outside entity occupying the human body, pushing the original personality to the back and taking over conscious functions. I'm... Not fully into either, but not fully outside either.
To be honest, if I were to observe my condition objectively, it's no different from a stroke patient... Conscious, but unable to do anything; able to think, but unable to move. A new principle was engraved from this alternative scenario: my body is not my body, my name does not apply, and the truth is useless.
So finally, for the time being I accepted this narrative line. Not because I believed in it, but because there was no other choice; I had to understand the context, before further diving into the concept.