Chapter Two: A Name to Carry

  Two weeks passed.

  Time moved strangely in this world—slow and quiet, marked only by the crackle of the fire and the

  rhythm of snow falling beyond the wooden walls. Somewhere during those days, I accepted what I had

  been avoiding since the moment I woke up.

  I had died.

  Whatever life I once lived had ended completely. The world I came from no longer existed for me. I had

  been given another body, another chance—though whether it was mercy or punishment, I did not yet

  know.

  This body felt wrong.

  Not unfamiliar, but incomplete. As if it remembered things I could not. When I tried to stand, my legs

  trembled violently, my balance collapsing after only a few steps. I moved like a child learning to walk for

  the first time, clumsy and uncertain. Pain still lingered, but it no longer ruled me.

  That was because of her.

  The elderly woman treated my wounds every day with quiet dedication. The scent of herbs clung to my

  skin, and her hands were steady as she worked, tightening bandages and murmuring soft

  reassurances. She never showed frustration, never spoke of burden.

  The old man was different.

  Each morning, he gathered his gear and left for the forest without a word. Hours later, he returned

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  carrying whatever he had managed to hunt. Sometimes it was enough. Sometimes it barely was. The

  scars on his hands and arms spoke of years spent surviving in a place that showed no mercy.

  I hated watching them work while I lay helpless.

  The urge to move—to do something—burned inside me. Every instinct screamed that remaining idle

  was wrong. When the woman carried water, I tried to take the bucket from her. When she prepared

  herbs, I offered my hands.

  Each time, I was gently—but firmly—pushed back.

  “You’re not ready,” she said.

  The old man was less patient. “Rest,” he ordered. “Weakness will get you killed.”

  I obeyed.

  But the weight in my chest remained.

  One afternoon, I stepped outside.

  The cold air struck my lungs sharply, stealing my breath. Snow crunched beneath my feet as I leaned

  heavily against the doorframe. The forest stood before me—silent, vast, and unmoving. Its stillness felt

  unnatural, like something holding its breath.

  Peaceful.

  Dangerously so.

  When I took another step forward, the elderly woman appeared behind me and gently pulled me back. “That’s far enough,” she said quietly.

  That night, the old man returned with game. I never saw it, but the smell of fresh meat filled the house

  as a thick soup simmered over the fire. As I drank it, warmth spread through my body, easing a part of

  the emptiness inside me.

  This place was calm.

  Kind.

  Almost gentle.

  And that frightened me more than the forest ever could.

  A few days later, I realized something I should have asked long ago.

  I didn’t know their names.

  That night, as we ate together, I finally spoke.

  “I’m sorry.”

  They looked at me in surprise.

  “I should have asked earlier,” I continued. “I don’t even know your names.”

  For a brief moment, silence filled the room.

  Then they laughed.

  The woman smiled warmly. “It took you long enough.”

  “My name is Merry Lancer,” she said.

  The old man nodded once. “Fred Lancer.”

  They turned their attention to me.

  “And you?” Fred asked. “Where are you from?”

  The question struck deeper than I expected.

  I searched my mind desperately—for a name, a place, a memory.

  Nothing answered.

  “I don’t know,” I said at last. “I don’t remember my name. Or where I came from.”

  The words felt hollow, but honest.

  “All I know,” I added quietly, “is that I don’t have anywhere to return to.”

  Merry set her bowl aside and looked at me for a long moment. Then she spoke.

  “We never had children,” she said. “Would you like to be our son?”

  The world seemed to stop.

  “Yes,” I said. Merry smiled through tears. “Then your name will be Jake Lancer.”

  Fred stood up suddenly and left the room.

  I stiffened, unsure of what I had done wrong.

  Merry noticed and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  “He’s just… too happy,” she said softly.

  For the first time since I arrived in this world, I felt like I belonged.

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