Festival's Eve

"It's almost my sixth birthday..." My mind muses as I gaze into the mirror.

The years in this strange world have flown by like leaves caught in a storm.

It barely seems real; sometimes, I have to remind myself: yes, it has been this long since I awoke in this world. Is it even new anymore? It's become a part of me.

Looking at my reflection, I barely recognise the girl staring back. My hair's grown past my shoulders, wild and unruly. I'm still small, but my body's robust from years of play and chores.

Memories of my previous life on Earth feel like a dream as if they belonged to a different person. There's a disconnect, a divide between who I was and who I am now.

Can you be two people at once? My reflection tells me 'yes'.

Looking back, it feels like only yesterday when I first opened my eyes to this baffling existence.

"Every day, every night, each moment that's passed has been a lesson. Learning the language, understanding the regulations of this place, and even performing chores with a child's body; it's all been an adventure. But there were moments of comfort too. Moments of warmth, moments of laughter, and love... moments with her." I whisper internally, my mind catching at the mention of my mother.

Instead of a school uniform, I'm covered in the simple yet comfortable attire of this new world.

I trace my face with the back of my tiny hands, half-expecting the illusion to shatter at any moment. It doesn't. The truth is clear: I am that girl in the mirror.

But behind those bright green eyes, I see resilience, a tenacity born from embracing the unexpected and the unthinkable. I see me.

I guess time does fly fast when you're trying to navigate a life that's straight out of a fantasy novel.

My birthday and the festival are just around the corner, and I can hardly contain my excitement.

Anticipation for the event is bubbling inside me like a shaken soda can, and I can't help but dream of gaining a magical ability.

It would be so incredible! However, as the clock ticks down, I can't help but feel haunted by self-doubt and fear.

Nonetheless, I'm determined to push through and make the most of this exciting time.

I can't sit still, bouncing on the balls of my feet every time someone mentions the festival.

Behind me, I hear my mother's voice, "Komachi, breakfast is ready!"

"Yes, Mum!" I call back, giving my reflection one last determined look before leaving the room. Even if I don't get any powers, I'll still be the best me.

After all, who else can claim to have lived in two completely different worlds?

As I scamper down the stairs, my mother waits in the kitchen, the enticing aroma of cinnamon and apples wafting from the kitchen, blending with the homely scent of smoky oak from the hearth. I hear the soft sizzle of something frying and the melodious hum of my mother.

"Slow down, Komachi!"

She calls with a laugh, the sound warming my heart. These daily interactions, these tiny moments of connection, they've become the rhythm of my new life.

Breakfast passes in a flurry of laughter and shared looks. Every bite consumed is charged with the shared excitement for the upcoming festival—and my birthday.

The day carries on, and our house turns into a beehive of activity, with my mum the industrious queen bee.

Mum is busy in the kitchen, her hands become an afterimage blur as she prepares the dishes we're supposed to bring to the festival feast.

"Mum, how do you knead the dough?" I ask, poking the soft mixture.

She guides my hands with a soft laugh, "Like this, dear."

Later, as we chop vegetables for the stew, I question.

"Why do we use these specific veggies, Mum?"

Her knife doesn't stop moving as she explains.

"Each vegetable adds its own flavour to the stew, Komachi. It's a traditional recipe."

We move on to stringing wildflowers for garlands. I frown at my clumsy attempts and look at Mum's perfect garland, "How do you make it look so easy?"

She ruffles my hair, a grin on her face, "Years of practice, dear."

Every dish, every decoration carries a tradition, a story of its own, which Mum narrates as we work.

In between helping Mum with the preparations, I sneak peeks outside the window.

"Mum, can you feel it?" I ask, peering out the window at the busy villagers.

She follows my gaze and nods, "The energy of the village? Yes, it's quite tangible."

The usually quiet streets are now filled with bustling villagers, colourful decorations hanging from every corner, turning the mundane into the magical.

Preparations for the festival are a vortex of chaos and laughter. I'm put in charge of hanging the lanterns, but my excitement is too much, and I keep dropping them.

"Komachi!" Mum scolds, laughing despite herself, "Are you decorating the ground or the house?"

In my defence, it's a legitimate question.

The festival day is near, bright and clear.

"Mum, what's that smell?" I ask, my nose twitching at the aroma wafting through our home.

She flashes me a smile, "I'm baking bread for the festival, dear."

As she kneads the dough, she begins humming a tune, and I find myself tapping my foot along.

"What song is that, Mum?" I ask.

She chuckles, "That, Komachi, is a traditional tune for the festival."

As days progress, the entire village seems to be holding its breath, caught in the grip of the impending festival.

The festival preparations take up all my waking hours. In the midst of it all, I almost forget about the magic I've been waiting to receive.

Almost.