The relentless drumming of rain against the leaded windows was almost hypnotic. Each drop seemed to magnify the cozy dimness of the small living room. Elen shifted in the worn armchair, its fabric soft and slightly scratchy against his skin. He was tucked into its corner, a familiar, comforting embrace. A battered copy of The Hobbit rested on his lap, but his gaze was lost in the swirling patterns the rain traced on the glass.
A quiet weariness, a feeling that sat strangely on someone so young, settled over him. It was his eighth birthday. He was grateful, of course, for the small celebration. His mum, Mary, had baked a slightly lopsided cake, and his dad, David, had carefully wrapped a book. But the truth was, it all felt...small. Ordinary.
Elen was born on April 23, 1964, in this life. And he, Elen Warmith, was anything but ordinary.
He wasn't really Elen Warmith. Not entirely. He remembered another life, a life lived in the bustling, vibrant streets of 21st-century Chengdu. He had been Lin Wei then, a software engineer with a promising career, a loving family, and a comfortable existence. He remembered the taste of spicy Sichuan food, the hum of the city, the glow of a computer screen under his fingers. He remembered...dying. A sudden, sharp pain, a blinding light, and then...nothing. At the age of eighteen, he'd been crossing a busy street when it happened. One moment, he was thinking about the project he was working on, the next, there was a blinding flash of headlights, the screech of tires, and then...nothing. The infamous "Truck-kun," as he'd later learned the phenomenon was called, had claimed another victim.
Until he was here.
Born again, inexplicably, into this quiet, unassuming English life. To Mary, with her kind smile and perpetually flour-dusted apron, a stay-at-home mum who filled their small home with the scent of baking and the sound of gentle humming. To David, a hardworking, red-faced man with a passion for cooking, who poured his heart and soul (and most of their savings) into his little restaurant, "The Golden Ladle," just a few towns over. They were good people, his parents. Loving, supportive, if a bit...overwhelmed. Money was always tight, the restaurant a constant struggle, but they never let Elen feel unloved. The initial years were the hardest. He had to adjust to a world without the internet, smartphones, and readily available information. The slower pace of life, the lack of instant communication, and the limited access to the vast digital resources he'd taken for granted were constant sources of frustration. Even simple things, like not being able to look up a recipe or send a quick message to a friend, felt like significant losses.
He loved them, he truly did. But sometimes, especially on days like this, the dissonance was almost unbearable. He was trapped in a life that wasn't his, with memories that felt both vivid and distant, like a dream half-remembered.
He glanced around the small living room. It was cozy, in its own way. A bit cluttered, with mismatched furniture and stacks of books threatening to topple over, but warm. His mum had tried to make it festive with a few balloons and a "Happy Birthday" banner that had seen better days.
His dad was probably in the kitchen right now, preparing a special dinner. David was a fantastic chef, his food a little piece of home, even if that home was...this place. Elen sometimes helped out at the restaurant, washing dishes or peeling vegetables, the organized chaos of the kitchen a stark contrast to the quiet order he remembered from his past life.
"Elen, love, are you coming?" Mary's voice, soft and lilting, drifted from the doorway. She stood there, wiping her hands on her apron, a gentle smile on her face. "Dad's just about finished. Everything smells delicious, your favorite, beef stew."
Elen pushed himself up from the armchair, the worn fabric sighing in relief. He managed a smile, though it felt a bit strained. "Coming, Mum. Just finishing this chapter."
Mary chuckled. "Always got your nose in a book, that one. Just like your father."
Elen grinned. "Someone has to keep the family tradition alive."
The small dining room was brightly lit, a stark contrast to the gloom outside. The table was set with their best china, a slightly mismatched set that had been passed down through generations. In the center was the cake, a simple chocolate sponge with "Happy Birthday Elen" written in slightly wobbly icing. A testament to Mary's baking skills.
David emerged from the kitchen, carrying a steaming tureen. The aroma of rich beef stew filled the air, mingled with the sweet scent of the cake. He beamed at Elen, his face flushed from the heat of the stove. "Happy birthday, son! Hope you've worked up an appetite. Your mum made your favorite cake, and I added a special ingredient to the stew, just for you."
Elen's eyes widened slightly. "Special ingredient?"
David winked. "A chef's secret. But I promise, it's nothing too adventurous for an eight-year-old."
The evening passed in a blur of warm food, cheerful conversation, and the simple joy of being together. Mary told stories about Elen's early childhood. "Remember when you tried to 'help' me bake cookies, Elen? You ended up wearing more flour than you put in the bowl!"
Elen blushed, and David chuckled. "And you were so proud of your messy creations. You presented them to me like they were gourmet delicacies."
David recounted amusing anecdotes from the restaurant, his booming laughter filling the room. "Old Mr. Henderson nearly choked on his pea soup last week. Turns out, he thought the croutons were biscuits!"
After dinner, Elen opened his presents. The book from his dad was a collection of classic science fiction stories, a genre Elen had always loved in his past life. "I remember you always asking me to read those stories to you," David said, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "I hope you enjoy reading them yourself now."
"I will, Dad. Thank you," Elen replied, his voice sincere. He opened the book and saw a small inscription: "To Elen, May your adventures be as grand as the ones you read about. Love, Dad."
As the night drew to a close, and the rain finally began to subside, Elen found himself feeling a reluctant warmth. Despite the strange circumstances of his existence, despite the memories that haunted him, there were moments like these, moments of simple human connection, that made it all a little more bearable. He looked at his parents, their faces etched with love and care, and a pang of affection resonated within him.
A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his head. Not like the pain of dying, but a different kind of...pressure. It felt like something was...waking up.
Images flooded his mind, not memories this time, but...data. Complex equations, swirling patterns, the intricate workings of...something. It was overwhelming, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once.
He gasped, clutching his head. The book fell to the floor.
"Elen? Are you alright, love?" His mum was suddenly beside him, her brow furrowed with concern. "You've gone quite pale."
He couldn't explain. He didn't understand it himself. "I...I'm fine, Mum. Just a headache. Maybe a bit too much cake."
David frowned, placing a hand on Elen's forehead. "Are you sure? You feel a little warm."
The pressure subsided, leaving behind a strange sense of...clarity. It was as if a thousand voices had suddenly fallen silent, leaving a single, clear thought in their wake.
System online.
He knew, instinctively, what it was. The chip. It had activated. The...thing from his past life, the impossible technology that had somehow come with him, was now a part of him.
And everything, he suspected, was about to change.