Chapter 3: To Change A Fate

The realization hit me like a cart full of bricks, drawn by the largest ox in the kingdom. My mind raced, trying to piece together how she died, why she died… but I couldn't recall it.

"So? Where have you been?" She asked, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "I've been searching for you like a hound on the hunt."

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Well done, Caiden. You've mastered the art of silence. I could already feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck. Perhaps I could pretend I hadn't heard the question and slink away into the shadows? Nah, she'd catch me faster than a deer in a trap.

I swallowed, trying to keep the panic from seeping into my voice. The answer came late, after a few seconds of silence. "I—um... I don't know. Been... busy. You know, saving the world. Hero stuff."

She just shook her head gently, her gaze softening. "Caiden… hero stuff doesn't explain why you're late. The sun has long set."

I winced, letting out a long breath. "Well... you see, I've got this odd thing with fate. It's like we're stuck in some cosmic dance, and I keep stepping on its toes. And let me tell you, it's getting rather tired of me. So... I'm trying to figure out how to stop ruining everything."

She stared at me, her face unreadable.

"Mom... I'm sorry," I whispered under my breath, clutching my chest. There was so much to fix. So many things I regretted.

Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around me in a warm embrace, pulling me into a hug that felt like the kind only a mother can give—no questions, no conditions, just warmth.

"You don't have to apologize for anything, my child," she said softly. "You're here, and that is enough. We'll figure it out together."

For a moment, I froze, my heart thumping in my chest. I felt like I might crumble in her arms. But I forced out a weak smile, my voice barely a whisper, "Well, that's a first. Someone's offering to fix things with me, and it's not Lorian."

"Who's Lorian?" She asked, genuinely curious.

"Just the villain in my hero story," I replied.

She smiled, her arms tightening around me. "Well… we all have our Lorains, I suppose. But you, my son, are not alone." She reassured me. "You need not carry everything alone."

For a moment, I just sat there, enveloped by her warmth, breathing deeply. Maybe I wasn't alone after all.

"Thanks... Mom." The word felt strange, but comforting. I held onto her tightly, unsure of what the future held, but unwilling to let go of this warmth.

For the first time in a long while, I felt a flicker of hope. I wasn't sure how things would go, or what "right" even looked like, but for once, I wasn't staring into the abyss of regret. I was… cautiously optimistic? Yeah, that sounded right.

We walked together—well, I walked, and she more or less floated along beside me, a woman with purpose in her step.

Now, I'll admit, I had a momentary crisis. Here I was, a grown man, holding my mother's hand like a child. For a second, I felt ten again, trying not to step on the cracks in the cobblestones. But then I told myself—hey, this was a very manly thing to do. A real man doesn't let his mother wander the streets alone, right? Definitely a manly thing.

As we strolled through the darkness, I wondered how she managed to navigate the night with such ease. Was she some sort of night-vision sorceress? Could she see better than I could in daylight? Because all I could see were dark shapes and shadows that looked far too much like creatures waiting to eat me alive.

Yet, somehow, we found our way. And when we arrived at our "humble abode," I felt an odd sense of contentment.

It was humble, indeed. By humble, I meant it looked like it had been built by someone who didn't mind risking a collapse during a storm. But it was good enough. Cozy, in its own way, if you considered the creaking walls and the roof that sagged in a manner that screamed "this might be a problem tomorrow."

To the left, there was an estate, locked behind a rusty iron gate wrapped in vines, the kind that made you wonder if the gate had once been designed to keep something in—or out. Inside the estate, two goats stared at me, unmoving, unblinking, as if silently judging my very existence.

"Home sweet… home?" I muttered, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling stirring in my gut.

Mom squeezed my hand, her smile unwavering as if she hadn't noticed the goats or the decrepit state of the house. "It's perfect, isn't it?"

Perfect? Well, it was… certainly something. But instead of pointing out the sagging roof or the overgrown garden, I simply nodded. "Yeah. It's got… character."

She laughed softly, her eyes twinkling with an optimism only a mother could possess. And there was something else in her gaze—something that told me she knew something I didn't.

It wasn't the life I imagined, but it was my life—a life without grand castles, epic battles, or the princesses. Well, unless you counted goats as princesses.

And me? I wasn't the hero in this story, just a son, standing beside his mother in a rickety house, being judged by goats. Definitely not the protagonist.

Inside, the warmth of the hearth greeted me. My mother, whose name I had temporarily forgotten—how horrid of me—was stirring a pot, the flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows on the walls. Time felt suspended, as if the moments here were meant to be savored.

She ladled the broth into a bowl—old and chipped, the kind that had clearly seen many winters—and handed it to me with a spoon that had more dents than I cared to count.

"Where's your food?" I asked, glancing at the empty spot in front of her.

"I already ate," she replied with a smile that would've fooled anyone else. But not me. I knew better.

Her smile was gentle, but her eyes betrayed her. This was the same routine. She would always put me first, even when it meant pretending she had no hunger.

I hesitated. Then, with the threat of her feeding the goats, I ate. And for that brief moment, all my troubles melted away. It wasn't the finest meal, nor was it the most seasoned, but it was more than enough.

That was when she hit me with it.

"You're not Caiden… are you?"

I nearly choked on my food.

The words crashed into me like a boulder. My mind went blank. I couldn't think. I tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "What do you mean?" I asked, doing my best to sound nonchalant.

Her gaze never wavered. It wasn't hostile, but there was a deep knowing there—sadness, even. It twisted my gut.

She waited. No rush. Just a calm silence that stretched out before her next words.

"Or rather, you're not my Caiden. You look like him, but in no way do you act like him." Her voice was quiet but firm.

I froze. The jig was up. My mind scrambled for an answer, but all I could do was stare, paralyzed by the weight of her words.

"Not just your behavior," she continued softly, her voice holding a note of sorrow. "My Caiden… died three years ago."

Silence filled the room.

"...Oh. I see," I murmured, barely able to get the words out. My gaze stayed fixed on the meal, as if it could somehow take away the heaviness in the air.

Then she spoke again, her voice cutting through the stillness.

"So," she asked, "Who are you? The one who possesses my boy's body?"

My mind raced. The weight of the question hung in the air like a storm cloud. How could I answer this? What could I say?

I hesitated. But then I remembered. That moment in the alleyway. When she offered her hand, her kindness wasn't an act, and it wasn't now either. Her warmth was genuine.

I finally spoke, my voice shaky but resolute.

"If you'd believe me… I'm not from here."

Her expression didn't change immediately, but I could see the wheels turning in her mind as she processed my words.

"Not from here?" she repeated softly. "You mean… not from this town? Or... something else?"

I nodded, took a deep breath, and said, "Not from this world."