A Child's Soul, Part One

["...I was a boy once. At least, all I have left are vague memories."] 

Left beneath the rain, the young man laid there with faint gasps escaping his lips, only left to feel the warmth pooling beneath his body. In the busy city, people either walked past him without batting an eye or looked at him as if he were a nuisance, dirtying the cobblestone with his blood. 

He held the gaping hole on his stomach, sitting against the wall as his own life fled from his body. 

["The only thing I remember about my time as a human was the very end–when I met him."] 

His eyelids became heavy, fluttering as he tried to cling to his fluttering consciousness. As he hung his head, slumping over, a puddle splashed as footsteps rapidly came his way. It was a surprise to the boy, seeing the foot come to him in such a panic. 

Did somebody wish to move him out of the way? After all, nobody cared about the life of a slum dweller like himself–only a nuisance. 

"You poor thing…This isn't right," a saddened voice of a man spoke with complete grief. 

For the young man who hardly clung to his own consciousness, the words felt like the voice of an angel, pitying him into the heavens as everything faded to black. Somehow, he accepted it–this was the end. 

Yet–

He was able to open his eyes, not finding the golden skies of paradise, but the old, wooden interior with bookcases lining the walls and tables cluttered with carving tools. 

In front of him, an old, wrinkly man with a bushy mustache was staring at him with such hope in his eyes, nothing like the boy had ever seen. 

"You're awake–you're awake! I did it…It was a success–hold on, you can hear me, right?" The old man asked. 

The boy nodded, though found speaking to be a difficult task, as though an impossibly dense lump was found in his throat. As he lifted his hand to touch his neck, the sensation was odd, as if two foreign objects touched one another. 

'That's strange…' He thought. 

"Do you remember what happened?" The wizened man asked, sitting on the stool with his hands placed on the boy's shoulders. 

While he tried to recall the events, he couldn't feel the touch of the old man, only shaking his head as his mind was left hazy. 

"You passed away…at least, your body did–but, I managed to extract your soul and transfer it into a suitable vessel," the old man explained, tapping his chest. 

He copied the motion, poking himself, though hearing the clunk of wood as he looked down. What he found wasn't tan skin like he had, but smooth, wood, staring at his own hands as if they were unrecognizable objects. 

"This is your new body. Do you remember your name? Did you have one?" The old man asked with genuine care. "Mine is Karl."

Amidst the confusion of the situation, wanting to cry, nothing left his eyes, only the sensation of tears welling up as his cheeks heated, though nothing left his face. A "name"--that question bothered him the same, finding nothing in his foggy mind. 

He shook his head, sulking as he clutched his knees close to his chest, managing to force the words out finally, "I don't remember…Why am I like this…? I'm a monster…"

The old man sat there with a saddened droop of his brow, taking his round-rimmed glasses off, "I apologize."

"What?" The wooden boy asked, looking at the perplexing expression worn by the elder. 

For some reason he couldn't understand, the old man looked to be battling back his own tears, wrought with such sadness despite him not being the one stuck in a false body. 

Karl sat there with slumped shoulders, cleaning his glasses, "I am not a talented mage, you see. If someone of greater skill had found you, perhaps they would've been able to revive you, or at least give you a more suitable body. This was the best I could manage–I am sorry."

["I couldn't understand why he was apologizing–why he was so stricken with grief. I didn't know this man, and he didn't know me either, right?"] 

"Bruno," Karl said. 

"Huh?" The boy responded. 

The old man smiled, placing his glasses back on as he held out his hands, "If you like it, I believe it will be a good name for you."

"Bruno..." The boy repeated. 

["From then on, I lived with Karl. He was a kind man, though he was a hermit of sorts–most days, he stayed in his workshop every waking hour."] 

In the kitchen, he peeled potatoes, efficiently skinning them as he did with each vegetable. It was easy enough for him to flip the knife in his hand, able to command his inorganic body with dexterity. 

He worked on the meal, plating it before carrying up the creaking, wooden stairs, stepping into the hallway. It was at the end of the corridor, absent of any decorations, with a floor littered with books, that he stepped into the room of the tiresome man. 

As he stepped in, it was the same sight he was used to–the old man was hunched over the table, littered with wooden shavings and solid parts, working tirelessly. With a magic wand used like a binding flame, Karl connected a left arm to the torso of the inanimate doll. 

Finally, the man noticed the presence of the wooden boy, turning around, "Oh, hello, Bruno. It seems I've just finished your next body."

It was an annual procedure, setting himself on the table, strapped with magical holds that suspended his wooden form. A careful process was taken with great precision as the old man extracted the essence of the boy–

On the abdomen of the wooden vessel, a snow-white seal in the shape of a human heart was granted a shine with a tap. From it, a pure, translucent essence was lifted from the body. 

Karl carefully extracted the colorless orb, holding it as though it were made of glass so brittle a mere breath could shatter it. 

"Steady now, boy, I've got you," the senior quietly said, walking with careful steps towards the new body, tending to the soul. 

["Each year, he would build a new body, sometimes only subtly larger than the previous. I believe it was his way of simulating the growth I would have if I were a normal boy. I didn't care much to be slightly taller each time, but I suppose it made him happy."]