Chapter 4: NEW LIFE
The discharge papers felt heavier than they should.
I signed my name—Paul Franco, not my name, never my name—and handed the clipboard back to Nurse Martinez. She smiled like I was a miracle. Maybe I was.
"Take care of yourself, Mr. Franco."
"I'll try."
Doctor Hendricks had given me the rundown. Rest. Fluids. Follow-up appointments I'd probably miss. The usual medical theater for a patient who shouldn't be walking at all.
The hospital's front doors opened onto gray January light. Cold air hit my face and I stood there for a moment, breathing it in. Free. Alive. Starting over.
A paper bag hung from my wrist. My belongings. Or rather, the belongings of the man whose body I'd stolen.
I found a bench in the parking lot and opened it.
Wallet first. Worn leather, cracked at the edges. Inside: $340 in cash—more than I'd expected—a driver's license with a face that was mine now, and a draft card stamped 4-F. Medical deferment. The car accident had saved Paul Franco from Vietnam.
"At least something good came from dying."
Keys. One for an apartment, one for a car that probably didn't exist anymore. A folded envelope with a lawyer's letterhead.
I read it twice to make sure I understood.
The accident that killed the original Paul Franco had also killed his parents. They'd been in the car with him, coming back from a weekend trip. He'd survived eleven days in a coma. They'd died on impact.
The letter was from an estate attorney. Paul Anthony Franco was the sole heir to his parents' savings: $2,847, currently held in probate. A modest amount. Enough to survive on while I figured out what the hell I was doing.
I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
"Orphan. Alone. No family to explain myself to."
The thought should have been sad. Instead, it felt like relief. One less complication. One less lie to maintain.
The bus ride across Hartford took forty minutes. I watched the city scroll past the window—brick buildings, factory smoke, cars that looked like museum pieces. 1968. A world I'd only seen in photographs.
The apartment was in a working-class neighborhood near the river. Four-story walk-up, fire escapes zigzagging down the facade, laundry hanging from windows despite the cold. My key fit a door on the third floor.
One room. Bed against the wall, hot plate on a shelf, window overlooking an alley. Shared bathroom down the hall. The kind of place a young man could afford on factory wages.
Paul Franco's things were still here. Whoever had packed up the hospital belongings hadn't touched the apartment yet.
I went through it methodically. Clothes that fit well enough. Catholic prayer books with dog-eared pages. A Bible with handwritten notes in the margins. And in a small wooden box on the nightstand, a rosary.
The beads were worn smooth from use. A note was tucked beneath them: For my Paul, from Nonna. May the Blessed Mother protect you always.
I held the rosary in my palm. The beads were cool against my skin.
[ITEM DETECTED: BLESSED OBJECT]
[FAITH RESONANCE +1 (PROXIMITY)]
The notification faded. I put the rosary around my neck, tucking it under my shirt. It felt right there. Like it belonged.
"Thanks, Nonna. Whoever you were."
[Hartford — January 22, 1968]
Three days to find a job.
The church seemed obvious. Holy ground. Access to blessed items. A cover that explained why a young man would be interested in religious artifacts without raising eyebrows.
St. Michael's was a Gothic revival building six blocks from my apartment. Stone walls, stained glass, a bell tower that had probably been ringing since before the Civil War. I walked through the front doors and inhaled incense and candle wax.
The priest found me before I found him.
"Can I help you, son?"
Father Mancini was seventy if he was a day. White hair, deeply lined face, hands that trembled slightly when he moved. But his eyes were sharp. Clear. They studied me with an intensity that made me want to check if my secrets were showing.
"I'm looking for work," I said. "I heard you might need a janitor."
"Did you." It wasn't a question. "And who told you that?"
"Woman at the grocery store. Said the last one quit."
Mancini nodded slowly. "Drank himself out of the job. Sad story." He gestured toward a pew. "Sit. Tell me about yourself."
The cover story came out smooth. I'd practiced it in the mirror. Car accident. Memory problems. Parents gone. Looking for purpose. Looking for stability.
Mancini listened without interrupting. When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
"You've got old eyes for a young man."
My stomach tightened. "The accident changed me."
"I'm sure it did." He stood, joints creaking audibly. "The job pays $1.50 an hour. Twenty hours a week. You clean the sanctuary, the offices, and the basement. You do not touch the altar without permission. You do not enter the rectory without knocking. You attend Mass on Sundays."
"Yes, Father."
"And Paul?" He paused at the sacristy door. "Whatever you're running from—it's still going to be there when you stop running. But at least here, you'll have somewhere to stand."
He disappeared through the door before I could respond.
"He knows something. Or he suspects something."
I'd have to be careful.
[Paul's Apartment — February 1, 1968]
The hot plate took three tries to light.
I stirred canned tomato sauce in a dented pot while water boiled for pasta. The smell filled the tiny apartment—garlic, oregano, something approximating Italian. Not good Italian. Desperate Italian. The kind of meal you made when you had $340 to last until your first paycheck.
But it was mine. Made with my hands in my kitchen in my new life.
I ate standing at the window, watching Hartford's lights flicker on as darkness fell. Steam rose from the bowl. The pasta was overcooked and the sauce was too salty and I didn't care.
"First real meal. First real home. First real day of whatever this is."
[SYSTEM LEVEL UP: 1 → 2]
[NEW ABILITY SLOT UNLOCKED]
[PSYCHIC AWAKENING TREES NOW ACCESSIBLE]
I almost dropped the bowl.
The notification glowed blue in my peripheral vision. I'd been so focused on survival—apartment, job, cover story—that I'd nearly forgotten the system existed.
I set the pasta down and accessed the Hub.
The cramped study had changed. Still dim, still candlelit, but the walls were different now. Those branching patterns I'd noticed before had grown more complex, and three of them pulsed with golden light. Labels appeared when I focused:
CLAIRVOYANCE TREE — Information gathering, remote viewing, enhanced perception
TELEKINESIS TREE — Physical force, object manipulation, eventual flight
SPIRITUAL SHIELD TREE — Defense against possession, mental fortitude, protective auras
A prompt floated in front of me:
[SELECT FIRST AWAKENING PATH]
[NOTE: ADDITIONAL PATHS UNLOCK AT HIGHER LEVELS]
I studied each tree carefully. Clairvoyance would help with investigations. Telekinesis would help in combat. Spiritual Shield would keep me alive when things got bad.
The pool case was waiting. Something in the water. Something that had already killed three people.
"I need to see what I'm dealing with before I fight it."
I selected Clairvoyance.
[CLAIRVOYANCE TREE UNLOCKED]
[ABILITY ACQUIRED: SENSE PRESENCE LV.1]
[COST: 5 PS PER MINUTE / RANGE: 10 METERS]
A warmth spread through my skull. Not painful—more like a muscle I'd never used beginning to stretch.
I closed the Hub and returned to my pasta. Cold now. I ate it anyway.
The case board glowed in my mind. Municipal Pool. Three drownings. Something in the water.
Tomorrow I'd find a way in. Tonight, I'd sleep.
My first real sleep in my own bed in my new life.
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