Lightning crackled violently overhead as rain poured down in sheets, transforming the empty streets into shallow rivers. Any sane person had sought shelter from the deluge—all except for the figure who darted through the shadows, clutching a small bundle to their chest.
The figure paused before a sturdy brick building with a dimly lit sign identifying it as "Westbrook Home for Children." With trembling hands, they placed the bundle—a newborn wrapped in thin blankets—inside a cardboard box on the doorstep. A pendant gleamed briefly in the lightning flash before being tucked back into the folds of the blanket. Without a backward glance, the figure disappeared into the storm.
The sudden rush of cold water seeping into her makeshift cradle disturbed the sleeping infant. Purple eyes—unnaturally focused for one so young—blinked open and surveyed the unfamiliar surroundings.
Where am I? What's happening? The consciousness trapped within the infant's body reeled in confusion. The last thing she remembered was hiking with friends, an erupting volcano, a falling boulder crushing her leg, and then... nothing but darkness before waking in this tiny, helpless form.
The sodden cardboard began to collapse around her, and the once-dry blankets now clung to her skin like a cold shroud. Her infant body responded as nature intended—with piercing wails that sliced through the sound of the storm.
Inside the building, Agatha Winters lowered the volume on her television, her weathered hand hovering over the remote as she cocked her head. Thirty years as the nighttime receptionist at Westbrook had attuned her ears to sounds most would miss. There it was again—a cry, barely audible above the storm.
With a grimace, she hauled herself from her chair, bones protesting the movement. "Who in their right mind would be out in this?" she muttered, shuffling toward the door.
The wind nearly tore the door from her grasp as she pulled it open. Rain lashed her face as she squinted into the darkness. There, illuminated by a flash of lightning, lay the cardboard box, now nearly dissolved by the rain. Inside, a tiny form squirmed and wailed.
"Lord have mercy," Agatha whispered, hurrying out into the downpour. She scooped up the soaked infant, her eyes scanning the deserted street for any sign of whoever had left the child. Finding none, she clutched the baby to her chest and hurried back inside.
"You poor little thing," she crooned, her experienced hands quickly unwrapping the soaked blankets. She gathered towels from the supply closet and gently dried the shivering infant. "Let's get you warm."
As she worked, something caught her eye—a pendant hanging from a delicate chain around the baby's neck. It was unlike anything Agatha had ever seen: a curious blend of gold and silver that shifted to blue when caught in the light, adorned with three interlocking rings and a purple gemstone eye at its centre.
For a moment, a shadow of greed darkened Agatha's expression. Such a piece would fetch a handsome price—enough perhaps to pay for the treatments her doctors kept recommending.
The baby's gaze, impossibly alert, locked onto Agatha's. Something in those purple eyes made the old woman's greed dissolve into shame. Clearing her throat, she turned the pendant over, finding an inscription etched into the metal.
"Zoe Sage," she read aloud. "Is that your name, little one?"
A violent coughing fit overtook her, and she doubled over, fumbling for the handkerchief in her pocket. When she pulled it away, crimson spots stained the white fabric. Agatha sighed. The doctors had given her six months—that was almost eight months ago.
"Don't you worry," she told the baby, forcing a smile. "I'll find someone to look after you properly."
She wrapped Zoe in fresh blankets and carried her to the phone mounted on the wall. After a moment's hesitation, she dialled a number she knew by heart.
"Hello?" A youthful voice answered after several rings.
"Julie? It's Agatha." She paused to suppress another cough. "I need your help."
"Agatha? It's nearly midnight. Is everything all right?" Concern sharpened Julie's tone.
"Someone left a baby on the doorstep," Agatha explained, watching as Zoe's eyes followed her every movement. "Just a newborn. Can't be more than a few days old."
"In this storm? Who would—" Julie cut herself off. "Have you called Child Services?"
"They won't send anyone until morning, not in this weather." Agatha's voice lowered. "Julie, I can't keep her here. You know my situation."
A heavy silence filled the line. "Agatha... the orphanage is over capacity already. The inspectors would have my license if I took in another without proper documentation."
"Please, Julie." Agatha seldom begged, but desperation tinged her voice now. "Just for tonight. I'll call Services first thing in the morning."
Another pause, then a resigned sigh. "All right, for tonight. But I can't make any promises beyond that. I'll try to reach out to some of the other homes in the morning."
"Thank you." Relief flooded through Agatha. "I'll take care of her until you can get here in the morning."
After hanging up, Agatha carried Zoe upstairs to her private quarters above the reception area. The room was modestly furnished—a bed, a dresser, and an ancient crib she'd kept from her days as a foster mother.
"This'll have to do for tonight," she told Zoe, settling her into the crib. The exhaustion that had been her constant companion these past months crashed over her, and she barely made it to her bed before collapsing.
Zoe lay in the unfamiliar crib, her mind racing despite her body's limitations. I died. I actually died, and now I'm... reborn? The concept seemed impossible, yet here she was, trapped in an infant's body with all her memories intact in perfect clarity.
Her previous life flashed before her eyes again—the hiking trip with friends, the volcanic eruption, pushing her friends to safety only to be pinned by a boulder as lava flowed inexorably toward her. The memory of searing heat and unimaginable pain made her infant body shudder.
A strange sense of detachment washed over her. She should be panicking, screaming, yet instead she felt oddly calm, analytical. I need to understand what's happened to me.
She tried to move her arms, expecting the usual uncoordinated flailing of a newborn she read about in stories. To her shock, while clumsy, her movements held purpose. She could control her limbs far better than any infant should.
Zoe concentrated, focusing her will on clenching her tiny fist. The response was immediate and powerful—far stronger than it should have been. Curious, she gripped one of the crib bars and pulled. The wood groaned softly.
What is happening to me?
Her exploration was interrupted by a wet, rattling sound from across the room. Agatha's breathing had become laboured, each inhalation a struggle. Then, suddenly, silence.
Zoe went still, instinctively understanding what had happened. The old woman had taken her final breath.
No, no, no! She was the only one who knew I was here!
Panic surged through her. She was alone, helpless, trapped in a crib beside a dead woman, with no way to call for help. On instinct, she began to cry, her wails echoing through the empty room.
But no one came.
After what felt like hours, her cries subsided into hiccupping sobs. I have to help myself, she realized. No one else will.
Gripping the bars again, she pulled with all her might. To her astonishment, the rotted wood splintered under her hands. She nearly tumbled backward from the unexpected give, then steadied herself.
That's not normal, she thought, staring at her tiny hands. Newborns shouldn't be able to do that.
She needed to get out of the crib, to find help somehow. Peering over the edge, the floor seemed miles below. Taking a deep breath, she squeezed through the gap she'd created and, holding onto the outside of the crib, began to lower herself.
Her grip slipped.
Time seemed to slow as she fell. Instead of the helpless plummet she expected, her body twisted in midair, catlike, and she landed on her feet with a soft thud. The impact jarred her but caused no pain.
That should have hurt, she thought, stunned. That should have been impossible.
Testing her newfound abilities, she took a tentative step forward. Then another. Each movement came easier than the last, her body responding with unnatural coordination for a newborn.
She needed to verify what had happened to Agatha. Approaching the bed, she stared up at the old queen sized bed. It might as well have been a cliff face. Undaunted, she gripped the hanging edge of the blanket and began to climb.
The ascent was surprisingly easy. Within moments, she stood on the mattress, breathing only slightly harder than normal. She approached Agatha's still form cautiously.
The woman's skin was already cooling, her eyes fixed on some distant point. Zoe's heart sank. She was truly alone now.
She carefully made her way back down to the floor, calculating the distance before dropping the last foot with uncanny precision. I need to find help, but first I need to understand what's happening to me.
The bedroom door stood firmly closed, the handle far above her reach. She studied it for a moment, then bent her knees and leaped. She soared upward, tiny hands grasping the metal handle. Her weight was just enough to turn it, and the door swung open as she dropped back to the floor.
In the dim light of the hallway, she spotted a staircase leading down. Carefully, she descended, her movements growing more confident with each step. At the bottom, she found herself in the reception area where she'd first been brought in.
A large desk dominated the space, and beside it, a bookshelf. Something pulled her toward it—an inexplicable certainty that knowledge was what she needed most right now and a uncontrollable urge deep within her compelling her actions. With surprising ease, she climbed the shelves and selected a thick volume that caught her eye.
Settling into a corner with the book—a comprehensive medical text—she began to read. The words made perfect sense to her, and she absorbed the information with astonishing speed.
Hours passed as she lost herself in reading, an impossible sight: a days-old infant devouring medical terminology with the comprehension of a scholar.
The front door's sudden opening startled her from her study. A middle-aged man entered, shaking rainwater from his coat.
"Agatha?" he called out. "Julie asked me to check on you."
Receiving no answer, his expression grew concerned. He moved toward the stairs, not noticing the small figure watching from the shadows.
Zoe hesitated, uncertain whether to reveal herself. Whatever had happened to her—this rebirth, these abilities—was something beyond normal understanding. Something told her to be cautious about who discovered her true nature.
The man's footsteps receded upstairs, and minutes later, a shocked cry confirmed he'd found Agatha. She heard him rush back down and grab the phone, reporting the death in hushed, urgent tones.
After hanging up, he slumped into the receptionist's chair, head in his hands. The page-turning sound as Zoe resumed her reading caught his attention.
Looking up, his eyes widened in disbelief as they locked onto the tiny form sitting cross-legged on the floor, calmly reading a medical text three times her size.
"What in God's name—" he whispered before the impossibility of what he was seeing proved too much. His eyes rolled back, and he slid from the chair in a dead faint.
Zoe closed the book with a sigh. She had a feeling this wouldn't be the last time she caused such a reaction.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Whatever happened next, one thing was certain—her new life was going to be anything but ordinary.
{A/N: New Story, I might continue it I might drop it. Anyway if you want me to continue the story give me stones so I know you appreciate it.}