Chapter 2: New Beginning

Catherine's first sensation was pain. Not the sharp, fleeting kind, but a deep, unrelenting ache that pressed into her bones and made her entire body feel alien. Her head pounded as though it were trapped in a vise, and her lungs struggled to pull in air. Every breath felt like a battle.

What happened? she thought, her mind swimming in fragments. There was a truck, the cold pavement… She remembered falling, the roar of metal, and then—unimaginable pain.

Her eyes fluttered open. Instead of the familiar gray of asphalt or the cold fluorescents of her workshop, she was met with a low, wooden ceiling. Rough beams crisscrossed above her, their grain worn and uneven. The light was soft and warm, coming from a small, flickering oil lamp on a table nearby.

Her chest heaved as she took in her surroundings. She wasn't on the street anymore. She was lying on a thin mattress, wrapped in a quilt patched together with care. The room was small and sparse, with a single wooden chair and a chest in the corner. A faint scent of herbs lingered in the air, mixed with the earthy smell of damp wood.

"Where…?" Her voice came out hoarse, and weak.

The door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside. She had kind, weathered features, with laugh lines etched deeply around her eyes. Her brown hair was tied back in a loose braid, and her simple dress bore signs of frequent mending.

"Oh, sweetie!" the woman exclaimed, rushing to her side. "You're awake!"

Before Catherine could react, the woman knelt beside her, pressing a cool hand to her forehead. "The fever's gone down, thank the stars. We were so worried."

Catherine blinked, trying to piece things together. She wanted to ask where she was, who this woman was, and why she was being spoken to with such familiarity. But her mouth refused to form the words.

"Mama! Is Sylvie awake?" A boy's voice called from outside the room.

"She is!" the woman—Mama?—called back, a relieved smile spreading across her face.

The boy appeared in the doorway, about ten years old, with messy dark hair and wide, curious eyes. He ran over, clutching a worn wooden toy in his hands.

"Sylvie! You scared us so bad!" he said, climbing onto the bed beside her and inspecting her face closely.

Sylvie. They thought she was someone named Sylvie. Catherine tried to sit up, but her body felt strange—too small, too light. She looked down at her hands and froze.

They weren't her hands. They were tiny, the fingers delicate and pale, the nails bitten short. Her breath hitched as panic bubbled in her chest.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" the woman asked, her face etched with concern.

"N-Nothing," Catherine managed, her voice high and soft—not her voice. "Just… dizzy."

"That's to be expected," the woman said gently. "You've been so sick these past few days. We thought we might lose you." Her voice wavered, and she reached out to smooth Catherine's hair.

Catherine flinched instinctively, but the gesture was so tender, so genuine, that she forced herself to stay still.

Her mind raced. This isn't my body. This isn't my world. She pressed her lips together, unwilling to say anything yet. How could she explain something she didn't understand herself?

The boy grinned at her, oblivious to her internal turmoil. "I knew you'd pull through! Mama always says you're the strongest."

"Now, now, Sylas," the mother chided gently, her smile never fading. "Let your sister rest. She's been through enough."

Rest. Right. Sure, Catherine thought, her heart hammering.

The mother leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from Catherine's face. "We'll get you some broth in a bit, okay? Just take it slow."

As they left her alone to rest, Catherine sat in silence, staring at her hands. Her breathing quickened, and she clenched her fists, trying to ground herself.

"This isn't real," she whispered, but her voice cracked.

She glanced around the room again, her heart pounding in her chest. Everything felt too vivid, too solid to be a dream. She needed answers.

The quilt slipped off her as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. They barely reached the floor. Her head felt heavy, and her balance was off as she stood shakily.

"I need to see," she murmured, searching the room for a mirror.

Her eyes landed on a small polished metal plate leaning against the wall. She stumbled toward it and froze when she caught her reflection.

The face staring back was that of a child, no older than eight or nine. Big green eyes, a small button nose, and a face framed by wavy red hair. It was utterly unfamiliar, yet undeniably hers.

Her stomach turned, and she gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. What the hell is going on?

As the panic clawed at her, she felt something—like a faint tug in her mind. A strange sense of presence. Before she could question it, a translucent screen blinked into existence before her eyes.

It was faint, almost like a hologram, with simple text written in a blocky font:

Name: Sylvie

Age: 8

Class: Unawakened

Strength: 1

Intelligence: 7

Agility: 1

Mana: 5

Dexterity: 10

Aspect: [Tinkerer's Blessing]

Skills: n/a

"What the…" she muttered, waving a hand through the screen.

What does that mean?

Her mind reeled as questions piled up. Who was Sylvie? What had happened to her?

She didn't have the answers yet, but one thing was certain: this world, this family, and this body weren't hers, atleast not as she knew it.

For now, though, she had no choice but to play along.