The gate of Darsen Central Primary School stood exactly as he remembered it.
Same polished metal bars.Same faint smell of disinfectant and dust.Same early-morning chaos of children being dragged forward by anxious parents.
In his first life, he had walked through this gate half-asleep, nervous, rubbing his eyes, losing his shoe once, and crying twice before reaching the courtyard.
Now?
He stepped forward with steady feet, the memories rising in waves that felt half-faded, half-sharp.
I've been here before.
Not in this body.Not with these eyes.But he had lived this morning already years ago when he was just a clueless six-year-old who didn't understand fear beyond scraped knees and losing crayons.
His gaze lifted.
The courtyard looked smaller than he remembered.In childhood, it had seemed huge, like a plaza built for giants. Now the proportions felt… correct. Manageable. Nostalgic.
Children ran everywhere same noisy energy, same chaos, same tiny disasters waiting to happen. One kid tripped at the exact spot Tyler remembered tripping in his last life.
His lips twitched. Some things really don't change.
But something else hit him immediately.
The thoughts.
A wave of them.
Loud. Messy. Raw.
—Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry——I hope my hair looks okay——Where's the bathroom——Who is that boy? His eyes…——Damn, forgot my water bottle——I want to go home already—
Tyler inhaled sharply. He'd been preparing for this, but the sheer density of thoughts in an enclosed space was more overwhelming than the open streets.
He lowered his gaze slightly, letting the crowd blur into background noise. His glasses helped muting the intensity like tinted glass cutting sunlight.
Melissa squeezed his hand gently."Excited?" she asked.
He nodded.
Excited wasn't perfect but close enough.More than excitement, it felt like déjà vu blended with clarity. A life replayed, but with subtitles turned on.
Silas scanned the courtyard like a parent scanning for threats, then looked down at Tyler with quiet pride. "You remember everything I said?"
Tyler nodded again. Last time, he hadn't listened to anything Silas said.This time, he remembered all of it.
As they walked deeper in, memories sparked with each step.
Left side PE field, the one he had hated running on.Right side three large benches where older kids ate snacks.Straight ahead assembly stage, wooden railing, faded banner holders.
He remembered lining up here.He remembered crying here once.He remembered laughing here later.He remembered a fight happening under that tree.
"It's the same," he murmured internally.
But the difference wasn't the school.
It was him.
The Tyler who stood here now was twenty-six in mind, six in body, and carrying the weight of a world's future quietly behind silver-sparked eyes.
The school building rose before him—a three-story rectangle of cream-colored paint, sunlight glinting off hundreds of windows. Posters hung in neat rows at the entrance:
SCIENCE WEEK SOON—DISCOVER YOUR CURIOSITY!UNITY & DISCIPLINE PROGRAMKEEP OUR SCHOOL CLEAN
Last time, he never noticed these.Now, he read every word, seeing the subtle political messaging behind "unity" and "discipline," the seeds of a country's future ideology.
Strange how much becomes visible when you know how to look.
A whistle pierced the noise.
"First-graders! Assemble in the courtyard! Parents, please move to the sides!"
A wave of small bodies shifted like a living river toward the central area. Tyler followed, taking his place in the crowd.
The exact spot where he once stood.The recollection made his chest feel oddly warm.
A few kids whispered:
"His eyes are pretty…""Look at that blue and silver…""He looks different."
Tyler kept his gaze low.Not shy strategic.
He didn't want another flood of thoughts crashing into him.
The principal stepped onto the wooden stage.
Tyler almost laughed.
Rowan Hale looked exactly the same as Tyler remembered in his previous life same stern glasses, same tidy suit, same posture of a man carrying responsibility like a backpack full of bricks.
"Good morning, students," Rowan began, voice steady, formal. "Welcome to Darsen Central Primary School."
The speech felt like déjà vu in real time.
The same introduction.The same words.Nearly the same rhythm.
Tyler mouthed the next lines under his breath in perfect sync:
"This is the beginning of your academic journey, a path toward knowledge, discipline, and a bright future…"
He stopped before the line finished because Rowan's thoughts began bleeding through:
Half the parents didn't submit forms… another headache…I hope the ministry doesn't visit this week…Why is that boy staring at the floor? Is he sick
Tyler blinked once.
Last time, this speech had been boring.Now it was… illuminating.
The cracks in adults weren't visible to a six-year-old.But a twenty-six-year-old?
He saw everything.
Rowan continued, polished and confident:
"You are the future of Varosia. Let this school be your foundation—"
His mind muttered:
Must inspect Class 1-A later. Hana better not be late again…Hope nobody faints this year… the nurse is already annoyed with me
The speech carried on, but Tyler's real challenge wasn't the principal.
It was the children.
Dozens of thoughts barges when he lift his head.
—I'm hungry— —Is this almost over— —That boy is cute— —I want to be his friend— —No! I want to go home— —I miss my mom— —What color is his bag— —I wanna cry— —I need to pee—
Tyler's breath caught. A tremor rolled through his mind too much noise, too many signals, all layered and raw. This hadn't happened in his last life.
Last time, he barely paid attention.
Now, the crowd felt like standing in a storm of radio signals all screaming at once.
He lowered his gaze sharply. Focused on a single tile. Just one. His breathing steadied.
Control returned inch by inch.
From the stage, Rowan Hale droned:
"and we wish you all a wonderful first day of learning."
Tyler exhaled.
The worst of the overload eased. For now.
Parents clapped. Teachers waved signs. Children scattered like released birds.
"Class 1-A over here!" "1-B follow me!" "Don't push, children!"
Tyler stepped out of the crowd and felt the air clear around him. Melissa waved from afar, eyes shining. Silas gave him a quiet nod filled with a weight Tyler hadn't appreciated in his last life.
Tyler turned toward the Class 1-A sign.
Same sign. Same position. Same beginning as before.
Except this time
He knew exactly what this school would shape. Who these kids would become. Which friendships mattered. Which mistakes he had once made.
And which he would not repeat.
He inhaled softly, fingers resting on the strap of his bag.
Round two begins.
The lines split like rivers, teachers waving placards and organizing currents of small bodies into orderly streams. The loud, scattered noise of the crowd smoothed into a new shape: groups, names, faces, placement. Tyler moved with the flow, letting memory and habit guide his feet. He knew this choreography in the foggy way of someone who'd once been an actor on a stage and now watched the rehearsal with the script memorized.
"Class 1-A, this way!" a teacher called, and the placard threaded them together.
He remembered the yellow sign. He remembered the way the sign tilted in the wind, how a small gust once sent the papers fluttering and an older boy had caught them with theatrical grace. Small things lodged in his memory like well-worn toys: the exact notch in the classroom door, the scuff on the third step leading upstairs, the sound the wooden floor made when it pronounced someone's name.
The names were read out; the list unfolded like a map.
"Tyler Brown?" a voice asked, clipboard held like an emblem of certainty.
"Here," he answered, and the sound of his own voice did something small and strange in his chest steady, adult, far from the squeak he used to have.
Around him, children's minds spun their private comments:
—He's here— —So calm— —He looks like those kids in magazines— —I want to sit near him— —Who is this kid—
Ms. Hana Rivers arrived shortly after, as if she had been summoned by her own bubbly energy. She moved like someone with an internal audience, trailing enthusiasm behind her. She was exactly how he recalled: hair clipped back in a hasty half-bun, a cartoon-pinned lanyard jingling at her chest, a tote bag filled with name tags and sticky notes. Her voice had that quick, womanly lilt that smoothed the nerves from a thousand small throats.
"Hi hello! I'm Ms. Rivers — Class 1-A!" she chimed, collapsing into a practiced, warm posture that invited trust. The children responded, warmth diffusing across the semicircle of chairs.
Tyler registered her the way he registered everything now: a sketchy, remembered outline and a new layer of detail. He remembered her from before — friendly, slightly clumsy, always performing smooth kindness. But this time, sitting in his small body with a twenty-six-year mind, he noticed the tiny stutters that used to be invisible: a hand that lingered a half-second too long on a child's shoulder, a glance that flicked off like a chicken pecking, a nervous laugh that arrived a fraction late.
He didn't pry. He catalogued, stored, made note.
Ms. Rivers began roll call like a radio host, but with more sparkle. "Okay, let's learn the names of our new friends! Say your name loud so we can all hear." Her hands flew through the air as if conducting a small orchestra.
One by one they answered. Chris — big grin and immediate handshake energy. Klein — reserved, curious, eyes tracking details as if he were already taking notes. Noah — bouncing in place as if composed entirely of rubber bands. Amaya — soft, eyes like a careful sketch, smile small and steady. Kai — arms folded, jaw set, already measuring the room for advantage. Eris — quiet, a depth in her glance that made Tyler's attention tilt for a moment before he suppressed the pull of recognition. Aria and Layla — gentle and bright, coloring the edges of the group with calm and spark.
Each reply unfurled a delicate string of thoughts in Tyler's ear, barely louder than a whisper. Most were what you'd expect: excitement, fear, curiosity. A few were sharper—competitiveness, assessment, tiny jealousies—threads he could trace to see how alliances might knot later.
When Ms. Rivers reached his name, she paused only a breath and offered the same wide smile she gave every child. "Tyler, where would you like to sit?"
Tyler felt the micromoment of attention press around him, like the hush in a library before a page turns. In his previous life he might have bumbled, chosen poorly, been pushed into an orbit he hadn't wanted. Now he had the luxury of choice with a map laid out in his mind.
"By the window," he said simply, and the desk near the glass was free.
The classroom was a tidy planet. Little wooden desks arranged in tidy rows, a colorful rug with letters at the front, a low bookshelf stuffed with picture books, drawing supplies sorted into plastic bins like patient soldiers. The teacher's desk harbored a mug that read "World's Okayest Teacher" and a precarious stack of lesson plans. Everything looked designed to be bright and safe.
Tyler sat at the window seat, which had been his spot once before without him knowing its later utility. From here he could watch the courtyard, measure movement, observe arrivals and departures, and retreat when noise became too much. In his head, he drew a tiny diagram of sightlines: who he could see, who could see him, where noise gathered.
The classroom hummed like a living thing settling into a new rhythm, and Tyler listened for the patterns he would later use.