Back to the land of living

The first sensation was warmth, a gentle, encompassing cocoon that wrapped around me like a soft blanket, easing the chaos that had consumed me. It was a warmth I hadn't felt in years, a deep, instinctive kind of comfort—the kind that reaches your very core and tells you everything will be all right.

I couldn't see much, couldn't make sense of the world yet, but I could feel something familiar. My body was cradled, secure, like I was being carried. And then I heard it, or rather, I felt it—a soft melody, one that didn't just touch my ears but resonated in my bones. The sound wasn't just music; it was more than that. It was a vibration, a pulse of safety.

A hand rested on my back, moving in slow, rhythmic pats, the kind that wordlessly soothed away fear. My chest rose and fell in time with the hum, a song without words, just tones that spoke to me in a language older than any memory. I couldn't place the tune, but it was as if it had always been there, a part of me, like my heart or my breath.

With every beat, every hum, the darkness that had been weighing me down began to retreat. It was like a fog lifting, the light behind it faint but steady, reaching out for me. I didn't know where I was or what had happened, but it didn't matter. The world outside was gone, and all that existed was the here and now—the embrace, the hum, the warmth.

I felt small, fragile even, but not in a way that scared me. Instead, it was the kind of fragility that felt cared for, and protected. It was the way a child feels, unburdened by the world's complexities, content in the knowledge that someone is always there to keep them safe. I hadn't felt like this in so long, and yet, it was unmistakable.

"Mom," I thought, or maybe I whispered it, though I couldn't be sure. Her presence was the only thing that made sense—the feel of her arms around me, the way she held me as if nothing in the world could touch me. I must have been dreaming, slipping into some memory from the past, because how else could I explain this?

The soft pats on my back continued, each one pulling me further from the abyss I'd fallen into, grounding me. The rhythm of her hum matched the steady pulse of my heartbeat, syncing together in a way that felt eternal like this had been my entire life.

I was being carried, swayed ever so slightly as though she was walking, but it didn't matter where we were going. I knew as long as she held me, I would be okay. I couldn't remember feeling this safe for ages, but it didn't dawn on me then how strange it all was. The world I'd known—the accident, the pain, the fire—was fading into something distant, no longer pressing in on me.

Instead, there was only the soft embrace, the quiet song, and the unshakeable belief that I was being held by the one person in the world who could shield me from anything. At that moment, there was no fear, no confusion—just a deep, calming certainty that I was home, wherever that was.

And then, in the quiet recesses of my mind, something shifted. It was subtle, barely a flicker of awareness, but enough to make me pause. I felt smaller, lighter than I should have. The warmth of my mother's arms felt like an echo of a long-forgotten memory, vivid and yet distant, as though I had reached across time without knowing it.

But for now, none of that mattered. I wasn't ready to understand the deeper layers of what had happened. For now, all I knew, all I cared to know, was the embrace of my mother, carrying me through the void, her soft hum making the world safe again.

And in that embrace, I drifted, held tight in the one place that nothing, not even time or disaster, could take from me.

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The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that I was being hugged. Not a stiff, awkward hug like the kind you give to distant relatives at reunions, but a deep, warm, and enveloping embrace. The kind of hug that sinks into your bones and cradles your very soul. I leaned into that body, felt its warmth, and instinctively burrowed closer. I didn't feel the need to open my eyes or even understand what was happening. I just felt safe—utterly safe in a way that made everything else disappear, like the world could crumble around me, and I wouldn't care because here, in this embrace, I was protected.

For a fleeting moment, I considered waking up fully, but then that thought drifted away, melting like sugar into tea. Instead, I just snuggled closer, allowing the comfort to pull me back into the gentle currents of sleep. Nothing else mattered. The pain, the fear, the chaos—it was all far away. Here, I was wrapped in love and warmth, and that was enough.

But the next time I woke, it was different.

A small, sharp pain in my left hand tugged me out of my dreamlike haze. Groggy, I blinked my eyes open, the world around me blurry and disjointed. The pain wasn't overwhelming, just a dull throb, but it was enough to shake me from the cocoon of warmth I'd been enveloped in. As I stirred, something else bubbled up inside me, something raw and unexpected—tears. Before I could even make sense of it, I was crying, sobbing like a child who'd lost their favorite toy.

I didn't understand why. The tears came hard and fast, streaking down my face as my chest heaved with every sob. It felt like my entire body had given in, as if the weight of the world had settled on my shoulders and the only way to cope was to let it all out. And I did—crying harder and more desperately than I had in years. No, not just years—decades.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I became aware of being carried. That same warmth was back, but this time, it wasn't just a stationary hug. Someone was holding me, carrying me with such care and tenderness that my sobs slowly began to quiet down. The person moved with a gentle rhythm, and with every step, the world seemed to sway, calming my frantic heart bit by bit.

But then, amidst the soft rocking and the comfort, a part of my mind sparked to life—a small flicker of awareness. Whoever was carrying me was... strong. Not just strong, but unnaturally so. I mean, I'm a grown man, for God's sake. I stand at 184 centimeters, weighing about 88 kilos the last time I checked. And yet, this person was holding me as though I weighed nothing at all, as if I were just a small child being cradled in their arms.

This didn't make sense.

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe the pain and the confusion were making my mind play tricks on me. But no matter how hard I tried to convince myself of that, the sensation of being held was too real, too tangible to dismiss. The strength of this person, their steady gait, and the way they carried me as if I were weightless—it didn't fit with reality.

And then I heard it.

A voice. A voice I hadn't heard in so many years that the sound of it stopped my entire world in its tracks. It was soft, melodic, and filled with the kind of love that only a mother could give.

My mother's voice.

She was speaking in Malayalam, the language of her childhood, the language she'd whispered to me as a child when I'd fall asleep in her arms. I hadn't heard her speak those familiar words since... since she passed. Cancer had taken her from me, slowly and cruelly, bit by bit until there was nothing left but the hollow shell of the woman who had once been the sun in my world. But this—this voice was vibrant, alive, and filled with the love I had always known from her.

"My darling child, shhh... everything will be all right. You are safe, I know it"

I froze. My entire being seized up, my heart hammering in my chest as though it were about to break free from my ribcage. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't even process what was happening. How could this be real? My mother was gone. She had been gone for years, buried beneath the cold earth, far away from the chaos and pain of this world. And yet, here she was—her voice as clear as day, soothing me, holding me, just like she used to when I was small.

The pain in my hand, the confusion in my mind, all of it faded into the background as I let her words wash over me. Her voice was like balm to a wound I didn't even realize I still carried. For so long, I had buried the grief, the emptiness that losing her had left behind. But now, in this surreal moment, it was as though she had never left. She was here, with me, holding me as if I were still her little boy.

I felt the warmth of her body against mine, the gentle patting of her hand on my back, the rhythm of her steps as she carried me. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't care about anything else. Not the accident, not the pain, not the world outside. All that mattered was this—this feeling of being held by my mother, of being comforted by the one person who had always made everything right.

And just like that, I drifted back into sleep, her voice still whispering soft, comforting words as the darkness closed in once again.

But even as I sank into the depths of unconsciousness, a part of me knew—this wasn't right. I wasn't a child anymore. I wasn't supposed to be carried around like this, not by her, not by anyone. I was a grown man, a footballer on the verge of retirement. My body had long since outgrown the need for my mother's embrace, and yet here I was, cradled in her arms as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed. She wasn't supposed to be here. She wasn't supposed to be alive. And yet, in this moment, all those impossible realities seemed to blur. In her arms, I was no longer that grown man. I wasn't the 184-centimeter footballer with broad shoulders and a body built from years of training. No, I was something much smaller, much more fragile.

I was her little boy.

And even though I didn't fully understand what was happening, a part of me didn't care. All I wanted was to stay here, in this moment, where everything was simple, where I was safe, and where my mother's voice could still reach me.

----------

The next time I woke up, it was different. The fog in my mind had lifted somewhat, and the sensation of being adrift in some surreal dreamscape was fading. I blinked a few times, letting the sterile white lights above me come into focus. It wasn't until I tried to move that the full weight of my situation hit me.

"I'm in a hospital," I muttered, trying to make sense of my surroundings. But the words didn't come out right.

I paused, my own voice sounding foreign to me. There was a slight slur, almost like air was escaping through a gap that shouldn't be there. And that's when I felt it—the cold sensation on my gums. My front teeth were gone. Panic began to set in, and my mind raced to piece together what had happened.

My hand instinctively flew to my mouth, feeling the smooth void where teeth used to be. I froze. My heart raced, thumping loudly in my ears as reality started to settle in—this wasn't a bad dream. Something was seriously wrong.

At that moment, the door creaked open, and my mother walked in—Lilly Joseph. The sight of her should've been comforting, and for a brief moment, it was. But then, confusion hit me like a tidal wave. My mother had passed away years ago. This couldn't be real. Yet there she was, alive and well, looking at me with that familiar mixture of concern and love etched across her face.

"Mum?" I croaked out, my voice trembling. she rushed to my side, her eyes filled with worry as if this was all normal—as if nothing had changed. "Shh, it's okay," she said softly, You've had a bad fever. Just rest."

Fever? That didn't make sense. I opened my mouth to protest, to ask questions, but I was too disoriented to form a coherent thought. The panic gnawing at the back of my mind refused to quiet. I tried again, this time slower, forcing my words to come out. "What…what happened?"

"You've been sick for a few days now," she explained, her voice calm, as though she'd explained this a thousand times already. "Your father's out taking care of the hospital bills and insurance. He'll be back soon."

My mind was spinning. None of this added up. I wasn't sick. I'd been in an accident—a car crash. Emma—Emma! My heart skipped a beat at the thought of her. I had to know where she was, if she was okay, if any of this was even real. I tried to sit up, but my body felt weak, heavy, like it didn't belong to me anymore.

"Mum," I whispered, barely able to get the words out, "what year is it?"

She gave me a quizzical look, one eyebrow raised. "It's 2003, sweetie. What kind of question is that?"

Her words hit me like a brick. 2003. My pulse quickened, and I looked down at my hands—small, too small. My mind scrambled to catch up. I wasn't an adult anymore. I was…a child. Eight years old, to be exact.

"No," I muttered, shaking my head as the room began to spin again. "This isn't right." I looked up at her, my wide eyes searching hers for any sign that this was some kind of mistake, a dream I could wake up from. But the way she was looking at me—it was too real.

Before I could say more, the door opened again, and my father, Mark Williams, walked in. His face was a mixture of relief and exhaustion, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world rested on them. He looked at me and smiled softly, but his eyes mirrored the worry I saw in my mother's.

"Hey, champ," he said, his voice a bit more gruff than I remembered. "How you feeling?"

I didn't know how to respond. I was still in shock, trying to process the fact that I was back in 2003, that I was somehow eight years old again, and that both my parents were alive and here with me. It didn't make sense.

"Dad," I began, my voice shaky, "what's going on? I don't understand. I was…I was older…"

He exchanged a glance with my mother, who stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on my arm. "You've been delirious from the fever, sweetheart," she explained softly. "You've been mumbling in your sleep. You even mentioned someone named 'Emma.'"

My heart lurched at the mention of Emma's name. How could I explain this? I was a grown man, a football player on the brink of retirement, married to the love of my life. And yet, here I was, a child again, with no way to reconcile the two realities.

"Emma…" I whispered, my voice barely audible. "She's…my wife."

My father chuckled, clearly thinking I was still caught in some fever-induced dream. "Your wife? You're eight years old, kiddo! No need to rush into things just yet."

But his lighthearted teasing only made the confusion worse. I wasn't eight—I was supposed to be an adult. How could they not see that? Why was everything so wrong?

"I don't understand," I muttered, more to myself than to them. My hands trembled as I ran them through my hair—hair that felt shorter than I remembered. "How am I here? I'm not… I was in a car accident."

My dad's expression softened, and he came closer, kneeling by my bedside. "You're safe now," he said gently. "That's all that matters. Just rest, okay? You've been through a lot."

I wanted to argue, to tell them they were wrong, but the words wouldn't come. My mind was too muddled, too overwhelmed to even begin to explain. So, I just nodded, trying to make sense of it all.

Then my father, ever the football fan, tried to lift the mood. "You know," he said with a playful grin, "you missed the game. Could've used your support, mate. It was a big one."

I frowned, trying to focus. Football. That felt familiar, something I could latch onto in the storm of confusion. "What game?"

"Our local team—Blyth Spartans," he said, his eyes lighting up as he spoke of our small town's pride and joy. "They had a match yesterday. Lost, unfortunately, but they gave it their all."

Ah, Blyth Spartans. I remembered them well. Back in 2003, they were just another team in the lower rungs of the English football pyramid. Eighth tier, I think. But for us, they were everything. The community rallied around them like they were Premier League champions, even though most of the country didn't even know they existed. My love for football had started with them. From 2000 onwards, I'd followed every game, memorized every stat, lived for those Saturday afternoons in the stands with my dad, cheering them on through rain or shine.

And I remembered how, years later, they would rise through the ranks, defying the odds to make it to the higher leagues. But right now, that was all in the future—my future, not theirs.

"They'll rise," I said, more to myself than to him. "They'll make it."

He laughed, clearly thinking I was still out of it. "Well, we'll see, won't we? For now, let's just focus on getting you better. We can worry about football later."

I nodded absentmindedly, but my thoughts were far away. How could I possibly be here, in 2003, when my mind was filled with memories of a future that hadn't happened yet? Memories of a woman named Emma, who, as far as anyone here was concerned, didn't exist. Memories of a life I'd lived, a career I was about to leave behind, a family I had built.

And yet, here I was, eight years old again, with my whole life ahead of me—whether I wanted it or not.

As my parents continued to fuss over me, offering reassurances I couldn't fully absorb, I felt a deep unease settling in my chest. What if this wasn't some fever dream? What if I was really…back here? Back in 2003, with no way to return to the life I knew?

I glanced at my father, who was talking about the next Spartans match, and my mother, who was tidying up around the room, and I felt a pang of something bittersweet. I hadn't seen them like this in so long. Maybe, just maybe, being here wasn't the worst thing. But as much as I loved them, I couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't belong here anymore.

I belonged with Emma.

--------

In the days following my unsettling realization that I was, impossibly, an eight-year-old once again, I clung desperately to the memory of Emma. Every waking moment was filled with her. I could see her face—soft and comforting, her smile capable of lighting up any room. When I closed my eyes, I tried to picture the warmth of her hand in mine, the way her presence made me feel anchored, safe. But as the days slipped into weeks, those memories began to blur. They felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else, to a life I could no longer touch.

I'd wake up every morning expecting to return to my adult self, waiting for this strange, dream-like reality to dissolve. But every time I opened my eyes, I was met with the same small room, the same child-sized body staring back at me in the mirror. I wasn't going anywhere. Emma was behind me, separated by some unfathomable chasm of time, and no matter how much I yearned for her, I couldn't reach her.

The thought should have shattered me. For days, I lay awake at night, wrestling with the unbearable realization that I had left her behind. I wondered if she was grieving for me, if she knew somehow that I had disappeared from her life. But as the days turned into weeks, something inside me began to change. I couldn't tell if it was my mind, my body, or something more nebulous. Gradually, the aching presence of Emma in my thoughts began to fade. It was as though she was slipping through my fingers, like sand being blown away by the wind.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table one afternoon, staring blankly out at the overgrown garden, when it struck me: Emma would be all right. She was strong, resilient. She wouldn't crumble under grief—she would find a way to move forward, even without me. The thought settled into me like a bittersweet kind of peace, a quiet release from the constant ache in my chest. It wasn't that I had stopped caring about her, but I had started to let go.

As this new reality sank in, I noticed something else happening—something more troubling. My concentration was slipping. At first, it was subtle: a slight difficulty in focusing on more complex thoughts, a fleeting forgetfulness about things I should've remembered easily. My mind, which had once been so sharp, felt like it was being dulled, like a blade losing its edge. I could no longer hold onto memories of my football career or conversations with Emma without them beginning to blur, as though they were nothing more than distant dreams.

I rationalized it, telling myself it was the disorientation, the fever, or the stress of being trapped in this child's body. But deep down, I knew the truth. My brain, this eight-year-old brain, wasn't equipped to process the complexities of my adult life. It was as if my mind was being reshaped, molded to match the body I now inhabited.

At first, I resisted it. I tried to cling to the clarity of my adult thoughts, to hold onto the perspective I had gained through years of living. But the effort was exhausting, and as the days wore on, I found myself slipping. My thoughts drifted into simpler patterns. My emotions, once tempered by maturity, started to feel raw, unfiltered.

One day, I was sitting with my father, watching cartoons on the old TV set. It was something I hadn't done since I was a child, something I would've scoffed at as an adult. But there I was, laughing at the jokes, engrossed in the colorful antics on the screen. It wasn't until the episode ended that I realized I had forgotten, even for a few moments, that I wasn't supposed to be an eight-year-old boy. I shook it off, telling myself it was a one-time thing, but it kept happening.

My emotional responses became less restrained, too. I remember one afternoon vividly, searching for a toy—a small, insignificant action figure I hadn't cared about in years—and feeling a swell of frustration when I couldn't find it. It was a childish reaction, one that overwhelmed me to the point where I had to bite back tears. That kind of emotional intensity wasn't something I was used to, but it was becoming my new normal.

Medically, it made sense. The brain of a child is still developing, still forming neural pathways and connections. The prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain responsible for higher-level thinking and impulse control—wasn't fully formed at eight years old. It was no wonder that my adult thoughts and memories were slipping through the cracks. My brain was reverting, restructuring itself to fit the body I now occupied.

Weeks passed like this, the transition slow but inevitable. At first, I fought it, desperate to hold onto the man I once was. But as the weeks turned into months, I found myself giving in to the pull of childhood. The memories of my adult life, of my career, of Emma, started to feel more distant, like fragments of a dream. They were still there, but they no longer felt like they belonged to me.

There was a moment, sometime in the second month, when I realized I hadn't thought about Emma for days. I was sitting at the table with my father, talking about school or some trivial thing, and he asked me, almost offhandedly, "Who's Emma?"

The question caught me off guard, and for a second, I didn't know how to respond.

"You've been mumbling her name in your sleep," he said, his tone light, teasing. "Who is she?"

I stared at him, the name hanging in the air between us. "She was… someone I used to know."

He laughed, ruffling my hair in that affectionate way he always did. "Well, whoever she was, she must've been pretty special."

"She was." The words felt distant on my tongue, as though I were speaking about someone I'd read about in a book, rather than someone I had loved with all my heart. The sharp ache of missing her was gone, replaced by a quiet, lingering sadness. Emma had been special, but she was part of a life that was no longer mine.

As the days turned into weeks, I found myself slipping further into the rhythm of childhood. I stopped talking about Emma. I stopped thinking about the life I had left behind. It wasn't that I had forgotten, exactly, but the memories felt less immediate, less urgent. I became more focused on the world around me—on school, on playing football with my friends, on the small, everyday concerns of being eight years old.

It wasn't easy. There were still moments when I would feel the weight of my past life pressing down on me, moments when I would remember Emma or my football career with a sudden, sharp clarity. But those moments were becoming fewer and farther between. Slowly, I was letting go of the man I had been, and embracing the boy I was becoming.

My parents noticed the change in me, too. At first, they were concerned, especially my father, who would sit by my bedside and ask if I remembered anything strange or unusual. He was worried that the fever had left some kind of lasting damage, but my mother reassured him. "He's just recovering," she'd say, "He's getting back to being himself."

In a way, she was right. I was getting back to being someone—just not the person they thought I was. The man I had been was slowly fading away, and in his place, an eight-year-old boy was emerging, with all the hopes, dreams, and simplicity that came with that age.

And as I let go of my old life, as I stopped resisting the inevitable pull of childhood, I found something unexpected: peace.