Six months have passed since my birth. Complicated.

To summarize: I’ve been reborn. Not as some random animal, like certain theories suggested, but as a baby.

What are the odds of someone reincarnating as a newborn? Zero, right?

Damn it.

This situation has its downsides, but I’ll admit—it’s not so bad. Except for one tiny inconvenience: a blonde baby girl clings to me like gum on a shoe. Isolde

It’s… nice.

Especially when she crawls on top of me while we sleep, turning us into a tiny baby hill. Or when she follows me everywhere, no matter where I go.

I recently learned to crawl. So did she. Now I can move with some freedom—theoretically. If it weren’t for that goddamn absurdly high wooden crib keeping us trapped like luxury prisoners.

The world around me is… strange. Or maybe the right word is new.

No computers. No decent phones—hell, they don’t even call them phones. Electrophones.

This is definitely the Victorian era.

I confirmed it after inspecting every room. Come on, no one in the modern era actually lives in full Victorian decor unless they’re obsessed with Gothic romance. Plus, there’s my father’s suits and my mother’s dresses. They don’t look comfortable… or so I thought, until they dressed me in linen and cotton sleepwear.

Comfy? Yes. Too loose? Also yes.

I drag myself across the floor while Isolde sticks to me like glue. As usual. It’s annoying. And yet… it’s not. When we’re separated too far, we both end up crying in unison, as if our bodies are hardwired to stay together.

Is this normal for twins?

I guess so.

My parents—Erika and Elías—are… good parents.

They carry us. Feed us. When Mother breastfeeds, she does it for both of us at once.

Isolde latches onto her chest like it’s her last meal in years.

I don’t mind.

I thought, with my past-life memories intact, I’d reject the idea of breastfeeding. But no.

Turns out, I accepted it surprisingly well.