I did not belong to this body. Couldn't control it.

  Pain, cold, separation, and the harsh cutting emptiness in my new tiny lungs all pushed me into agony. The thirst for air forced a greedy, large breath that I couldn't resist despite knowing better than to rush. Pain and cold invaded my tiny body, urging a cry out of me. A loud, piercing cry.

  A sound I couldn't recognize as my own. The cry emptied my just-filled lungs, prompting another deep breath, another cry of pain and longing that my body voiced against my will. It was the first real, unpleasant, and visceral testament of my new cage of flesh.

  Who knew if this was just a temporary situation or if I'd be a prisoner in this body forever? After the empowering feeling I'd had in that miraculous space, the helplessness filling me as my body did its own thing—relieving itself whenever it wished—was a source of shame like I'd never thought possible.

  In the space between death and life, hunger, cold, and pain had all been missing. Here they were chains holding my mind down, blanking my thoughts and eroding my will. The cold was the worst. It settled over my skin like needles and filled my lungs, heavy as lead on every breath.

  Second was the clawing hunger, rising from my gut and radiating upward, demanding sustenance and pushing my body toward more cries and the agony those brought. Pain was the result of these two—a constant reminder of the freedom I'd lost along with the beauty of that place and those sights.

  Those sights and the feeling I'd had in that space filled me with a crazy obsession and drive to try and get back to it. But I had not survived the erosion of that space through luck alone. The same practice that allowed me to survive the journey should allow me to see it again.

  In my old life, I had practiced Taoist traditions and exercises. Even though many rituals and incantations made me feel foolish—like a teenager convinced he held power and secret knowledge, chanting phrases to connect with spirits or making vows to the world—I could not help but hold through.

  My persistence in the study and practice rewarded me with knowledge of internal alchemy, which seemed to be the root of all the other practices, or rather the culmination of the entire tradition. Unlike many of the others, this belonged to a repeated pattern throughout many traditions.

  It was like Yoga and Kundalini meditation. Like the Polynesian concepts of mana and so on. This knowledge led me to abandon the rituals and focus on meditation, which benefited me. It was nothing like what cultivation novels would show.

  I got no absurd spells, no crazy growth in strength, and no special abilities, but my health did improve from it. The target of all these practices was developing an energy body and entering a kind of space outside of the world and normal cognition.

  So I took the only logical path in this situation. I tried to meditate. Of course, the needs of my new infant body made it almost impossible. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breath. I pushed out the flashbacks to the moments before my new incarnation and calmed my mind.

  One breath at a time, I slowed down, removing concerns to sink my consciousness. Peace swallowed me as my mind lost touch with the world. I fell asleep.

  Waking up, I realized something sticky was pressed against my butt, growing cold. Revulsion filled me. I was laying in my own feces. I had no choice but to cry to draw help. My blurry eyes, distorting shapes, couldn't let me know if anyone was near to even hear my cries.

  Days turned into weeks while I was locked in this cycle of torment and perseverance. Cold and hunger were still ever-present companions, but my moments of waking grew longer. Colors started to make sense and shapes became more defined.

  Every day I started over in my attempts. Either hunger drilling into my hollowed bowels, or sleep blanketing my senses in lead, broke my focus. My annoyance grew, simmering under the opposing circumstances and choking under my acknowledgment of reality.

  I finally succeeded. Quieting my mind, I projected my intention inward. I sought to observe the quiet space—the mental projection of the flow of life force, jing and qi. I was not ready for what my mind touched, however. A roaring, grinding flow, raging and crackling, entered my perception.

  It was nothing like the elusive qi and calm jing. It was a storm that should not exist in a human body. It filled me up, coiling and running through every corner of my body, seemingly wild and untamed. I tried to get a hold of it, and the flow answered readily, slowing down a bit.

  It startled me, almost making me snap out of the meditative state. Seeking confirmation of the reality of what I sensed, I projected my intent outward. The world was drowned in the same flow, the same alien unknown energy coursing through my body.

  The conclusion was simple and clear. The vision between worlds and lives was real. This was an unknown world, filled with this new energy, saturated with a power I did not recognize. This meant the flow I sensed wasn't alien. I was!

  I am the alien here!

  As if sensing my distress, my new mom took me in her arms. She started singing—a lullaby, a song meant to pacify me. As she held me to her chest, the hum of her song passed from her chest through my entire small body.

  She cradled me slowly, a gesture of pure, selfless affection. But it wasn't meant for me. Not meant for Evan Cole, the man who foolishly died in a restaurant. No, it was a feeling dedicated to this body, to the child supposed to be here, the son that I replaced. Perhaps killed.

  I robbed them of the joy of raising their child. They were wiping and cleaning a grown man. I was an invader, a parasite leeching off love not meant for me. From their point of view, I could only be a monster, an eldritch entity from beyond this world.

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  For the first time in this world, I cried of my own will.

  The next two days I was lost in despair. What until recently felt like torture—the pain of hunger and cold, the bursts of uncontrollable exhaustion—were now a punishment I saw as fitting. Sleep was a sweet relief for my mind plagued by guilt.

  The third morning came. My father, half asleep, came to my crib. He adjusted the pelts and blanket surrounding me. He raised my head gently, his rough, hot fingers brushing my skin. He was just a man caring for his child. No disgust, no annoyance at the fact he had to do all this for me.

  Things clicked in my mind at that moment. His care was like a ray of light pushing away the darkness. What could have been, what happened, what brought me here—none of it mattered anymore. I was here, being cared for, the responsibility of these people. I was their child.

  The only thing I could do was become the offspring they deserved, to make them proud of the life they had brought into this world. Besides, as cruel as it might be, as cowardly as it was to think this, to hope for this, there was a possibility that without me, the body would have died stillborn.

  Sunlight crept across the floorboards and faded into darkness several times before I felt ready to meditate again. That flow of energy only reminded me of my nature, of my origin. Yet the constant pull of my memories for the lights in that space convinced me to start again.

  I projected my will inward once more. The hum and roar of the new energy filled my senses. I tried ignoring it, looking for the flow of my qi. Yet my search was for naught. The quiet stream was covered up, swallowed by the churning ocean of new power.

  Like looking for a needle in a haystack, like trying to hear what someone told you during a rock concert, the familiar sensation of qi was eluding me, replaced by the overbearing flux of this power. It vibrated and saturated every corner of my being, drowning the presence of the subtle forces I was seeking.

  The sheer responsiveness of this energy was tempting. It surged and coiled at my will. It was like a dog—loud and big, but docile and willing to listen. I considered abandoning the Taoist path for a moment. Just like an old quote said, "All paths lead to the origin." Perhaps this one was simply more direct.

  But the engineer in me recoiled. I had no proof of how effective this new path was. I was a foreign soul in the body of a baby. What if taking control of this energy now would stunt my growth? In Taoist lineages one wasn't allowed to practice with their jing and qi until they were adults. What if it was the same here?

  So I continued in my attempts. Discovering my dan tians, the roots of life and power, was my first target. I had to push past the noise, still myself more, and build a foundation with what I already knew.

  All I could do until I had the capacity to speak and understand the language of this world was to try to deepen my meditation and reach beyond the noise created by this new power to find the roots of my life—the dan tians.

  My new life finally had a rhythm. Reaching for my grand ambition, I had to take small steps. Two immediate goals made up my targets. Every conversation of my parents was a lesson. I focused, trying to absorb each sound they made, while in the quiet moments between sleep and feeding, I meditated.

  Learning the language was an exercise of will. Having no understanding to start with and eyes that weren't adjusted to the world did not help. I memorized sounds with surprising ease as time passed, which did help.

  My parents, however, made my job very hard. Thinking I was a completely blank slate, they would spend minutes over me repeating the same things. One particular evening finally made a difference. My new father was holding me, seated on his knee.

  "Mama!" he said while pointing at my mother.

  She was seated next to what, through my almost-clear vision, I could only call an old stove. He turned me around and pointed at himself.

  "Papa!" he said, his voice filled with glee.

  A normal baby would have been giggling and filled with joy, but after hearing the same thing over and over for the last two weeks, I was anything but amused. My father turned me around again as my mom came closer. She spoke in a gentle tone.

  "Mama Linnea!" And as my dad turned me around again, she continued, "Look, Papa Rhys!"

  Three new words I can assign meaning to! The names of my parents... Linnea and Rhys... I might not know the language, but these two names roll well off the tongue. Hopefully they don't have some meaning like "pig leg" or something...

  My sight clarified slowly. If not for my desperation with it, I might not have noticed the transition, but as I opened my eyes after a good sleep, the edges of shapes were no longer blurred! The world around me felt fresh under the newly focused eyes.

  The faces of my parents became distinct. The frown filled with worry on my father's face, his black hair and brown eyes. The small creases on his forehead told me he was still young, perhaps thirty at most. My mom's warm smile and beautiful green eyes were distinct, flowing well with her brown hair.

  The flickering circles of red dancing around in the evening became flickering fire burning atop candles. The light brown pile next to the old stove was made up of firewood. The grey wall to which my crib was pressed against became a rising pile of round river stones—a chimney for the hearth.

  For the first time, I could see the texture of the furs I was sleeping in, and it warmed my heart. I can see! was the triumphant, happy thought that filled my mind.

  My vision gave me renewed determination to master my limbs. I started crawling and finally became a silent observer to everything the house had to show. The sounds I memorized now gained meaning as I could see what Linnea asked for from Rhys.

  I watched her worked hand stirring in a pot as Rhys returned from work. He brought an acrid smell of iron. His forearm had small splotches of red that I could see once he sat at the only table. It was blood, but not his own.

  Linnea berated him, probably for entering bloodied. She ended her words in a commanding tone, and Rhys got up again and left. He returned clean and sat back down. They talked a little. Then a pause.

  "Give me the bowls," asked Linnea.

  I did not understand yet that it was what she said. But seeing Rhys stand up and take wooden bowls from a shelf, understanding dawned on me, and I committed the phrase to memory. All I had to do next was compare it to other phrases I'd memorized so that I could break them into words I could understand.

  "Thank you!" she continued.

  When I had nothing to observe, I spent my time crawling around in my crib. I did so until my body ached with exhaustion. Rhys often seemed to comment on my liveliness, sounding happy. This was the very least I could enjoy.

  I pushed my body until my small muscles burned and stung. Each movement was a battle against my body and gravity for control and strength to do more. Finally, my hands buckled, and I fell nose-first onto the furs. Again I was breathing painfully, but no cry came out this time. My eyes were tearing silently instead.

  In moments like this, when I felt trapped in a cage of aching lungs and burning limbs, I thought back to the space—to the clouds of light and color, to the effortless, easy state of existence I'd been in. There, thought was movement, and weight and resistance were missing.

  This body's weakness was a temporary problem, one I would solve. I would reforge this cage of flesh into a tool, a vessel sharp and strong enough to one day carry me back to the void between worlds. With this determination as the foundation of my life, I kept persevering—crawling to exhaustion, meditating, and listening to every sound of my parents.

  My perseverance paid off by the time I was three months old.