Finn’s first sensation was warmth. It enveloped him like sunlight through a blanket—heavy, golden, safe.
The second sensation was wrongness.
The third was something deeper — a distant pressure in his chest, like an emotion he almost remembered having.
The air around him felt too soft against his skin. His heartbeat raced like he’d been sprinting in his sleep. His limbs were the wrong size. Too short. Too light. Every motion came back delayed, like he was piloting someone else’s body through thick glass.
His eyes flashed open. The world swam, everything was fuzzy at first, until eventually details hardened into a small room: wooden beams, limewashed walls, a slit of a window letting in a rectangle of grey morning. The bedframe creaked when he breathed. Linen sheets gently brushed his arms. The smell of old wood and—oddly—stew hung in the air. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache.
He pushed himself upright, small arms trembling under his own weight. His balance was off, his center of gravity all wrong—and when he tried to speak, the sound that came out was thin and high. A child’s voice.
Panic surged through him, sharp and rising. He clawed for something solid to hold onto—a memory, a name, a face. Surely there were people who mattered, people he’d die to remember. But when he reached for them, everything slid away.
For an instant he caught a flicker — a woman, blonde hair shining in golden light — and a sharp surge of emotion punched through him.
Not grief. Not quite rage. Something heavier. Something unfinished.
Then her face blurred, the details dissolving before he could hold onto them.
The memories slid away like minnows in dark water.
He let out a shaky breath as a dull numbness crept in where grief should have been. That, more than anything, made it worse.
Something blinked into existence at the edge of his vision. It was a translucent rectangle, softly glowing like moonlight on glass. Simple white text scrolled across it.
System Online.
User Interface calibrating…
Notice: New vessel established.
Age: 3 (effective).
Gross motor baseline: installed.
Language pack: installed (provisional).
Emotional regulation: not included.
[Notice: Residual affective signatures detected.
Classification: Irregular.
Status: Monitoring.]
A second line typed itself beneath the first, as if whoever was writing it had been waiting for him to read.
Welcome, User.
Tip: Breathing is recommended.
His jaw clenched. “What is—” His voice cracked again. “What are you?”
The box pulsed, deadpan.
Response:
A helpful overlay and occasional disappointment.
(Also: your UI. Say “menu.”)
“Menu,” he said, even as he raised an eyebrow at the strange response.
The rectangle unfolded into neat tabs.
[Character Sheet] [???] [Notes] [Quests] [Settings]
His eyes snagged on Settings. He tapped it with a small hand that didn’t feel like his.
Settings → Legal & Safety
Open: Terms of Interface v1.0 (recommended for… someone)
The text that appeared was dense, thin-fonted, and immediately repellent—the kind of thing only lawyers and demons loved. A subsection header flickered.
Clause 7b — Reclamation and Reassignment of Incomplete Souls
Under the Authority of Divine Rebirth, souls deemed incomplete — defined as those whose mortal termination precedes the fulfillment of intrinsic potential — may be reclaimed prior to Cycle Continuation.
Reclaimed entities are eligible for:
? Memory Veil Implementation
? Identity Reassignment
? Vessel Reinstatement
Purpose: To preserve existential balance and prevent stagnation of unrealized souls within the Cycle.
Addendum — Emotional Residue
While cognitive imprint removal is standard, emotional residue may persist in rare cases where the soul’s final state exhibits exceptional intensity.
Such remnants are classified as:
Noncompliant Echoes
Noncompliant Echoes may influence:
? Temperament
? Motivational alignment
? Affinity expression
These effects are considered anomalous and fall outside standard divine liability parameters.
Addendum — External Interference
Should reclamation coincide with destabilizing cosmic phenomena, the Authority acknowledges that influence from non-aligned entities may occur.
Liability for such interference is: Contested.
(Arbitration pending between recognized Authorities.)
Further inquiry prohibited under Clause 9 (Juvenile Consciousness Protection).
That's a very strongly phrased User Agreement… Finn thought to himself as he intuitively willed the screen to vanish.
Just then, a small cough sounded from the doorway, startling Finn so badly he almost fell out of his cot.
A boy that looked to be a couple years older leaned in. He had dark glossy hair, star-bright eyes, the kind of genuine warm smile that felt genuine and contagious.
Name. Easy question. Except It wasn’t.
The translucent screen shimmered back into being at the edge of his vision, responding to the thought like it had been waiting for him.
[Character Sheet]
Name: Finn
Race: Half-Elf (secondary lineage — unidentified)
Age: 3 (effective)
Affinity: Undefined
Status: Conscious / Confused / Stable enough
(Note: Identity pre-registered under “Finn.”)
The name pulsed softly on the screen. He didn’t remember choosing it, but the moment he saw it, something in him eased. It felt right — like a word he’d been trying to remember all day.
“...Finn,” he said aloud, testing it. The sound settled against him, familiar in a way he couldn’t explain.
The interface brightened once, as if satisfied.
Confirmation acknowledged. Welcome back, Finn.
“Great to meet you, Finn!” Cosmo grabbed his hand with zero ceremony. “C’mon. You’ve gotta meet everyone.”
Finn barely had time to find his footing before he was being dragged out the door.
Finn quickly found himself being hauled into the hallway before he could protest. The floorboards were warm against his bare feet. A low, steady clatter carried from somewhere—spoons, bowls, voices rolled together. The place smelled like thyme and onions and heat.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
“Where… am I?” Finn managed.
“Hearthstone Orphanage,” Cosmo said, as if reciting the answer from a flyer. “Don’t let the ‘orphanage’ part freak you out. It’s more like… you know.” He waved vaguely. “A house. With way too many kids. And stew.”
As Cosmo said, the orphanage really did feel more like a sprawling home than any institution. Warm wood beams held up the ceiling, and faint laughter spilled down from somewhere above. The air carried the scent of stew and smoke—signs of life that filled every corner. This building had seen generations of use, its walls patched and repatched until the place itself seemed to hum with memory. The hearth in the main hall still burned with the same steady flame that gave Hearthstone its name—a literal namesake and, maybe, a symbolic one too. It wasn’t just the fire that kept the place warm; it was the people orbiting around it.
That warmth reached him despite the fog in his head. For a strange moment, it felt like he’d walked into someone else’s life mid-scene.
A small shelf beside the hall caught Finn’s eye—lined with battered storybooks, chipped trinkets, and a wooden sea creature carved from pale driftwood. At first glance it looked like a whale, but something about it was wrong. It had two tails that curved in opposite directions, splitting the figure down the middle like mirrored halves — as if it had once been whole and forced into becoming two different things.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Finn asked as they passed.
Cosmo glanced over. “A whale,” he said, as if it were obvious.
Finn frowned. “Whales don’t have two tails.” The words came out before he could stop them.
Cosmo blinked. “So you do know what a whale is?”
“I—yeah, I think so,” Finn said slowly, the certainty already slipping away. He tried to summon the image again—something huge and gray, cutting through blue water—but it blurred the harder he chased it. “Maybe I’m thinking of something else.”
Cosmo shrugged, already losing interest. “Either way, that one’s broken. Nyx threw it at Wren last week.” He grinned and started walking again, and Finn followed, the image of the two-tailed whale lingering in his mind like a half-remembered dream that was quickly fading away.
His head buzzed faintly—like a thought trying to take shape and failing. Then, without warning, the translucent interface flickered back into view.
Notice: Standard Reincarnation Protocol applied.
Basic motor & speech installed.
Parental data: unavailable.
Quest unlocked: Find Your Place.
Progress: 0%.
“The hell—” Finn muttered under his breath. “Is that… normal?”
Response:
For you? Sure. Try not to walk into any doorframes.
The warning came half a second too late.
Finn turned his head just in time to not see the frame coming. His forehead met solid wood with a solid bonk.
The User Interface started reeling off belated strings of text.
Emergency Quest: Doorway.
Objective: Avoid the doorway in your path before you run into it.
(Hint:) Avoid focusing on this prompt to allow for focus as you rapidly approach the doorway I just warned you about)
Result: BONK
Alert: Quest failed.
Comment: Oops.
(Note: Spatial awareness calibration recommended before future catastrophes.)
The text flickered out before he could reply.
Cosmo looked back, eyebrows raised. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Finn muttered, rubbing his forehead. “Just… calibrating.”
Cosmo shouldered through a broad doorway, and Finn followed, still rubbing the tender spot on his forehead. The hallway opened into a wide dining hall that felt too big to belong in an orphanage—high rafters of dark wood, sunlight slanting through narrow windows, and a long row of tables stretching toward a massive stone hearth that roared with steady heat. The air smelled of stew and baked bread and something sweet he couldn’t name. Voices overlapped in waves, laughter bouncing off the walls.
It hit him all at once: this was the living heart of the building, full of motion and warmth, the kind of room made for people who belonged.
Then Cosmo raised his voice.
“Everyone!” he shouted, grinning like he’d just announced a royal guest. “He’s awake!”
The room froze. Fifteen faces turned toward Finn in unison. Spoons hovered halfway to mouths. Someone snorted softly.
Finn’s stomach dropped. He wished Cosmo would have warned him before loudly announcing their arrival. Every instinct screamed to fold in on himself, to shrink until he disappeared between the floorboards.
The interface flickered at the edge of his vision.
Status: Social Anxiety (acute).
Suggestion: Sit. Eat. Blink occasionally.
Finn wanted to strangle the increasingly infuriating UI, and it merrily blinked out of view.
Cosmo was still grinning, oblivious to the horror he’d unleashed on Finn, and gestured grandly toward the nearest bench. “C’mon! You’re gonna like everyone, I promise.”
Although he heavily doubted that Finn rushed to join the table, hoping the noise would rise again and he could disappear into it.
A boy with messy light brown hair lounged across one of the benches, one leg draped over the other like he owned the place. Freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, dark against sun-warmed skin. He looked maybe five, six at most—just old enough to have perfected the art of casual defiance.
“About time,” he said, not bothering to hide his smirk. “I was starting to think Cosmo made you up.”
His tone was teasing but not cruel, the kind of mockery that carried familiarity instead of malice. Still, the weight of every other gaze in the room made Finn want to sink into the floorboards.
“Shut it, Wren,” Cosmo said, without heat.
Across from the boy called Wren sat a girl with steady, level eyes. She slid a bowl across the table until it nudged the empty spot in front of Finn.
“Eat,” she said. “Food always helps me when I get anxious.”
Her tone was calm and soft as she gently smiled down at him.
Finn meant to respond, but the words stalled as his gaze lingered. Her hair was a deep chestnut that caught threads of bronze from the firelight, a few loose strands framing a face both gentle and sharp in ways he couldn’t quite define. Her eyes—warm amber, steady and unflinching—seemed to meet his before he was ready. She looked a little older than Cosmo and Wren, maybe by a year, her expression carrying a quiet certainty that didn’t belong to someone so young.
Finn caught himself staring-studying her features without even realising it. He wasn’t sure why he was so transfixed, but hoped no one had caught him staring.
Heat crawled up his neck, and he blinked long and hard, as if to clear it. He forced his gaze down to the bowl. Hopefully no one had noticed.
He scooped a spoonful of stew just to have something to do with his hands.
“Talia,” Cosmo stage-whispered. “She’s extra nice on purpose.”
A stern-looking girl sat in the corner, black hair streaked with silver, impossibly green eyes sharp in the half-light. One knee up, motionless. Her gaze cut across the room like a thrown knife. She didn’t move closer. She didn’t have to.
“Nyx,” Cosmo added, like a warning label and a dare. “She says that about everyone.”
Nyx said nothing, her eyes silently challenging everyone and everything to defy her.
Finn finally lifted the spoon up to examine his stew. There was a rich broth that gave off an unbelievably alluring aroma. Large tender chunks of meat and potatoes floated and Finn could barely restrain himself before digging in.
If the smell hadn’t been a good enough indication, Finn was still startled at the flavor of the stew. He may not have memories of his old life, but he was certain that he had never tasted anything as good as this stew. Why did an orphanage have such good food?
He blinked hard and kept eating.
The kids around him reeled off questions as he ate, their voices overlapping in a messy chorus. Where had he come from? How old was he? Could he use magic? Did he even have a bed yet? Finn tried to keep up, but the words blurred together—half curiosity, half excitement.
Between bites of stew and awkward nods, he started piecing things together. Apparently, he was something of a curiosity himself. Normally, Alistair—the instructor he’d yet to meet—was the one who introduced new arrivals to the orphanage. This time, though, Cosmo had been assigned as his guide, and no one seemed entirely sure why.
The details were thin, and the explanations thinner. But Finn didn’t push. Every time he opened his mouth to ask more, another question came his way, and it was easier to just focus on the food.
The UI hovered, unhelpfully helpful.
Tip: Nods and noncommittal noises are 63% effective.
Warning: Lying is work. Avoid hobbies you can’t maintain.
“Cosmo,” someone called from the kitchen. “Less shouting, more bowls.”
Cosmo vaulted the bench with reckless joy to obey. Finn used the quiet to breathe. He caught Wren watching him with a sideways look that wasn’t quite hostile. Nyx’s gaze slid away the moment he met it. Talia ate in patient, efficient bites like she had decided eating was a job and she was good at jobs.
It didn’t feel like home. It felt like a place where home might happen if he learned his lines fast enough.
Quest: Find Your Place
Optional Subtasks:
— Learn three names (4/5).
— Don’t spill stew (in progress).
— Breathe.
A laugh scratched up his throat unexpectedly. He coughed it down and finished the bowl.
The rest of the day moved on rails someone else had laid. Chores were posted. He wiped, carried, stacked, and tried not to fall off a stool that had definitely never been designed for balance-challenged reincarnates. Children passed around a battered reader and took turns stumbling through letters, then arguing about whether letters were stupid. A copper bell clanged somewhere and everyone flowed to the next thing like a school of fish pretending they had free will.
He pretended with them. His user interface had said his language had been installed, which seemed to mean he had a headstart on the kids his age in certain regards.
By evening, the common room had quieted into the soft clink of tidying and the heavier hush that meant people were winding down. Lanterns dimmed. Feet pattered down halls he barely remembered walking. Cosmo yawned theatrically and failed to hide it with both hands.
“Tomorrow,” Cosmo said around the yawn, “Alistair does the thing. The ‘welcome speech.’ It’s good. He does magic.” He grinned. “You’ll like it.”
Magic. The word kept cropping up, tossed around so casually it almost sounded normal.
But magic wasn’t real. That much seemed obvious.
Then again, neither was waking up in someone else’s body with a talking interface that handed out quests.
Finn stared at the dim ceiling a moment longer, unsure which version of reality he was supposed to believe in anymore.
- -Break -
The dormitory was a long, low room with paired beds and a window that turned the last light into a smear. Finn’s bed was narrow and clean. A plain leather journal lay on the small table beside it with a pencil stub tucked into the twine binding.
He slid under the blanket and lay on his back. The beams in the ceiling ran away into darkness like roads he couldn’t take yet. The day rewound—warmth, wrongness, the screen that joked, Cosmo’s hand on his wrist, Talia’s steady voice, Wren’s smug smirk, Nyx’s impossible eyes. It settled on him like a second blanket until he almost couldn’t breathe.
He turned his head and dragged the journal close. The UI obligingly brightened the corner of his vision just enough to see by.
He wrote his name on the first page. Finn. The letters were careful, a little shaky, like a kid trying to pass as older.
He hesitated, then began to write.
Woke up. Wrong body. Warm bed. Stew was good. People were… people.
He paused, reading the words back. The handwriting wasn’t perfect, but it was legible—and it wasn’t in the language the others spoke. The interface had filled his head with their tongue, complete with syntax and vocabulary, yet somehow, impossibly, he still remembered his own.
He didn’t know why. maybe the god behind his “trade” had tried to take everything, but failed to remove the parts that mattered most… Either way, writing in his old language felt… safe. His thoughts could stay his, even here.
He chewed the end of the pencil, frowned, and added:
There’s a screen in my head that thinks it’s funny. It told me to breathe. I did. It helped.
The UI pulsed faintly at the edge of his vision, as if acknowledging the line. For a second, he could almost imagine it watching with quiet approval. There was something strangely human about the response—something patient, almost kind.
Finn exhaled, the sound small in the dark. For the first time since waking in this world, he didn’t feel completely alone.
The UI dimmed itself to a soft ember, leaving a single line behind.
[Quest: Find Your Place] — Progress: 1%
Subprocess active: Identity Stabilization
Emotional Echoes: Dormant
Chronicles of Finn for a while. These early chapters have gone through a few iterations, but I’m finally at a place where the pacing, tone, and direction feel right.
See you in the next one.