A New Beginning Ben Carter was a quiet soul at twenty-two, the kind of person who faded into the background of a small town without drawing much notice. He wasn't one for chasing thrills or seeking the spotlight—his life was simple, steady, and unremarkable. For the past two years, he'd worked at Pages & Tomes, a cozy bookstore squeezed between a hardware store and a diner on Main Street. The job was a perfect fit. He spent his days shelving novels, breathing in the faint must of old paper and the crisp scent of new ink, occasionally chatting with the regulars who wandered in. It wasn't a career to boast about, but it was his, and he liked it well enough. Outside of work, he filled his weekends with solitary hikes through the nearby woods or lost himself in fantasy novels—tales of heroes, magic, and impossible worlds that let him escape the ordinariness of his own life.
Ben wasn't unhappy, though. He had a quiet contentment, a soft-spoken resilience that came from knowing who he was. He had a few friends—high school buddies he'd grab a beer with now and then—but his family was his anchor. His parents lived a few hours away in a sleepy suburb, and every couple of months, he'd make the trip to see them. His mom's roast chicken and mashed potatoes were worth the train ride alone, a taste of home he couldn't replicate in his cramped apartment. His dad, gruff but warm, would pull him into the garage to tinker with some old radio or car part, and they'd talk about nothing much, just enough to feel connected. Those visits were a ritual, a tether to the life he'd grown up with.
This weekend was one of those trips. Ben had packed light—a backpack with a change of clothes, a book for the ride, and a small gift for his mom, a bookmark with pressed flowers laminated into it, something he'd found at work. He'd been looking forward to it all week, counting down the hours until he could lock up the bookstore and head to the station. The sky was overcast as he left that Saturday afternoon, a faint chill in the air hinting at rain, but his mood was bright. He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to the train platform, humming a tune he couldn't quite place.
The station was busier than usual, a small crowd milling about as the next train rumbled in the distance. Ben stood near the edge of the platform, checking his phone for the time—five minutes until boarding. That's when he noticed her. A young woman, maybe a few years younger than him, lingered too close to the yellow line. Her dark hair hung in a messy curtain over her face, and her posture was off—shoulders slumped, hands trembling at her sides. She swayed slightly, her sneakers scuffing the concrete, and Ben frowned. Something wasn't right. He glanced around, expecting someone else to step in, but the crowd was oblivious, lost in their own worlds.
Then she moved. A single, deliberate step forward, right as the train's horn blared, loud and urgent. Her body tilted toward the tracks, her expression blank, and time seemed to slow. Ben's heart lurched. He didn't think—he acted. Dropping his bag, he lunged forward, his hand closing around her wrist. "Hey!" he shouted, pulling with all his strength. She stumbled back, but her momentum dragged them both toward the edge. The train was a blur of metal and noise, too close, too fast. He yanked harder, desperation surging through him, but his foot slipped, and the world tilted.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
Her first sensation was a jolt—like lightning searing through her skull. Her consciousness flickered to life, raw and unsteady, as if it had been yanked from a void and shoved into something unfamiliar. Cold grass pressed against her cheek, damp and prickly, but the sensation felt distant, muffled by a fog that clouded her mind. She tried to focus, to grasp where she was, but her thoughts slipped like water through her fingers, fragmented and impossible to hold.
What… what's happening?
Her body twitched, a reflex she didn't intend, and that's when the wrongness hit her full force. Everything felt off—too small, too light, too fragile. Her arms, her legs, her chest—they weren't where they should be, weren't what they should be. She tried to lift her head, but the command tangled somewhere between her brain and her muscles. Her neck jerked awkwardly, and a sharp pang shot through her spine, forcing a gasp from her lips—a high, thin sound that didn't belong to her.
That's not my voice.
Panic clawed at her, but even that felt sluggish, smothered by the haze in her mind. She forced her eyes open, blinking against a world that swam in and out of focus. Stars dotted a vast, unfamiliar sky, their light piercingly bright, sharper than she'd ever seen without glasses, but the sight only deepened her confusion. She couldn't think straight—couldn't string two coherent thoughts together. Her memories clashed with the present: she was Ben, a man, tall and strong, but this body… this body was something else entirely.
She tried to move her hand, to touch her face, but her arm flailed instead, smacking her own chest with a soft, weak thud. The sensation was alien—her hand too small, her chest too narrow, lacking the solidity she'd known for twenty-two years. She froze, staring at the trembling fingers in the moonlight: delicate, childlike, with smooth, unblemished skin. A girl's hands. Her breath hitched, shallow and rapid, as the realization sank in.
I'm… a girl?
Her mind recoiled, rejecting the truth even as her body screamed it. I'm Ben, she thought, clinging to the name, but it felt like grasping smoke. She tried to sit up, desperate to regain control, but her limbs betrayed her. Her right arm shot out when she meant to move her left, and her legs twisted beneath her, sending her crashing back to the ground. Pain flared in her elbow, sharp and immediate, but it was nothing compared to the chaos erupting inside her. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess—Who am I? Where am I? Why can't I move?—and her brain seemed to stutter, unable to process the mismatch between her identity and this new form.
Her chest tightened, her lungs refusing to expand properly. She gasped, but the air wouldn't come—each breath was too small, too weak, trapped in a ribcage that didn't fit her soul. Her heart pounded, erratic and frantic, a child's pulse racing out of sync with her fading consciousness. Dizziness slammed into her, the world spinning wildly, grass and stars blurring into a nauseating swirl. She clawed at her throat, fingers fumbling, as black spots danced across her vision.
Can't… breathe…
Her body convulsed, muscles seizing as her brain fought to adapt. She felt her legs kick out, unbidden, and her arms flopped uselessly at her sides, as if they belonged to someone else. The suffocation grew unbearable, a crushing weight that squeezed the life from her. Her vision tunneled, the edges collapsing into darkness, and a primal terror gripped her—I'm dying. Again.—before her mind frayed completely, and she slipped into oblivion.
But death didn't claim her. Deep within, a warmth flickered, faint at first, then fierce, like an ember refusing to fade. It pulsed through her core, an unyielding force that defied the void, weaving through the chaos to stitch her soul back into this fragile, foreign vessel. Her heart stuttered, then slowed, finding a rhythm it could sustain. Her lungs shuddered, drawing a ragged, painful breath.
She didn't wake immediately. Time blurred, her consciousness drifting in a liminal space as her body adjusted. When awareness finally returned, it was gradual—first a dull ache in her temples, then the cool press of earth against her skin. Her eyes fluttered open, the stars above now steady, their light no longer a dizzying assault. She lay still, trembling, as her mind clawed its way back to clarity.
Gasp
Alive. I'm alive.
Her breathing was still uneven, her chest tight, but air flowed—shallow, yes, but enough. She flexed her fingers, slowly this time, feeling the unfamiliar softness of her hands. They moved at her command, hesitant and weak, but obedient. She shifted her legs, wincing as they untangled, and rolled onto her side, the effort leaving her dizzy but not defeated.
I'm a girl. A child.
The thought was clearer now, heavy with reluctant resignation. I'm Ben—no, I'm… something else now, she corrected herself, the internal shift jarring. Her body felt less like a cage and more like a puzzle—one she might solve with time. She touched her face, tracing the smooth curve of her cheek, the small nose, the strands of silver hair that fell across her crimson eyes. It was real. She was real.
Her head throbbed, each pulse a reminder of her near-death. She lay there, grass prickling her skin, until the need to move—to understand—overpowered her exhaustion. She pushed herself up, her arms trembling under the effort, and leaned against a nearby boulder, its surface cold and rough against her bare back. The damp grass clung to her feet, chilling her toes, and the sensation sharpened her senses. She glanced down, and her breath caught—her body was utterly naked, her slender frame exposed to the night's chill. Her skin prickled, goosebumps rising, and panic surged. I'm alone in a forest, naked—what if something's out there? Wolves? Bandits?
Her heart raced, the child's pulse too fast, too fragile. She wrapped her arms around herself, but the cold bit deeper. It's so cold—need something to cover me, anything! The clearing stretched around her, bordered by dense thickets and gnarled trees, their branches swaying faintly in the breeze. In the distance, a flicker of torchlight danced, accompanied by murmurs of voices—too far to make out, but close enough to spike her fear. People. They'll see me. I need to hide, now.
Moving was a struggle. Her legs felt foreign, each step a clumsy negotiation with her new body. She staggered toward the edge of the clearing, her bare feet sinking into the soft earth, wincing as twigs snapped underfoot. The sounds were unnervingly loud in the quiet night, and she froze, ears straining for any response—a growl, a shout. Nothing came, but the weight of the unknown pressed heavier.
A few yards away, she spotted a massive tree, its roots sprawling like ancient fingers into the ground. At its base, a hollow formed a shallow recess, barely enough to shield her small frame but better than the open clearing. She stumbled toward it, her breath hitching as a branch grazed her arm, the sting biting and jarring. Collapsing into the hollow, she curled against the rough bark, its texture grounding her even as it scratched her skin. The scent of moss and damp wood enveloped her, mingling with the night's sweetness, and she pressed her knees to her chest, trembling from cold and exhaustion.
As her breathing steadied, she listened. The voices grew louder for a moment, a burst of animated chatter, too boisterous to notice the faint snaps of her movement. They were close—too close—but their words were a jumble, a cascade of syllables in a language she couldn't grasp. The sounds were alien and impenetrable, like a wall between her and safety. She clenched her fists, the helplessness stinging as much as the cold. I can't even understand them.How am I supposed to survive here? She held her breath, fingers digging into the bark, nails scraping as she waited, praying the shadows would hide her. The torchlight flickered nearer, casting fleeting shadows across the clearing. Then, slowly, the voices faded, their chatter receding into the night, the light dimming as they passed by, oblivious to her presence. They didn't hear me. Thank God. Relief washed over her, but it was fleeting—the forest was still a threat, and she was still alone.
As she curled tighter, her eyes caught the stars through a gap in the canopy, their light sharper than she'd ever seen, a fleeting strangeness that stirred unease. The clarity was unnerving, a hint of the changes she didn't yet understand, and she shivered, not just from the cold but from the weight of her new reality.