In an instant—a flash of warm golden-white light—the celestial palace vanished. The towering marble pillars, the cosmic tortoises, the faint hum of distant stars… all blinked out, like a dream exhaled into morning.
Oliver blinked.
He now stood in a quiet blue room.
The walls were soft sky-blue, brushed smooth like a memory you couldn't quite place. A large white bed rested neatly against the far wall—its sheets crisp, corners tucked perfectly, a single navy pillow resting in the center. The floor beneath him was cool, a soft gray carpet that cushioned his steps. Above, a white fan turned slowly, its blades whispering through the silence.
A gentle breeze passed from a nearby round window, casting a shimmer of light across the room. There were no electronics, no clutter, no ticking clocks—just stillness. The kind of stillness that felt... intentional.
Oliver stood there, wearing the white and black sweater, his black shorts brushing lightly against his smaller legs. The clothing from the Black Tortoise fit just right—not too loose, not too snug. Comfortable, soft. Familiar.
His breath caught in his chest as he looked around.
> "Where… am I now?" he whispered to himself, voice small, like it hadn't been used in ages.
He turned slowly in a circle, eyeing the modest furniture—a single oak chair beside a desk, an old book sitting on top, its pages half-flipped as if someone had been reading it just before leaving. A potted plant sat on a nearby shelf, its leaves glowing faintly blue at the tips.
There was no sound outside. No traffic. No hum of distant conversation. Only the light movement of air, the ceiling fan's slow swirl, and the faint scent of… lavender?
Oliver walked over to the window, peeked out—and saw nothing. Just soft white fog, endless and unthreatening, like the entire world had been put on pause.
He turned again and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly beneath his smaller weight. His hands touched the sheets—cool, comforting.
> "What is this place?" he murmured. "A dream? A memory? A… waiting room?"
He looked at the palms of his hands. The skin was soft. Uncalloused. Too young.
Whatever this place was—it wasn't Earth. But it wasn't hostile either. It felt safe.
And somehow, he knew:
This room would be the beginning of something else. Something quiet, but important.
The first page of his second life... unfolding slowly.
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The room is softly lit, bathed in a gentle, calming glow that soothes the eyes. The walls are painted a deep, serene blue, like dusk just before nightfall—rich, comforting, and quiet. A faint aroma of lavender drifts in the air, subtle and clean.
Against one wall stands a neatly made bed, draped in crisp white sheets and a light quilt. The bedding has a freshly-washed softness to it, inviting anyone to sink into its comfort. A small wooden nightstand rests beside it, holding a warm amber-shaded lamp, a half-read paperback, and a ceramic cup.
Nearby, a bookshelf leans gently into the corner, its shelves filled with worn novels, small potted plants, and little keepsakes—shells, stones, a framed photo tucked behind a candle. A soft rug lies underfoot, catching bare steps in its plush threads, while a window dressed in sheer curtains lets in just a hint of outside moonlight.
The room hums with a quiet stillness, a peaceful pocket of space that feels lived-in, warm, and safe.
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The door clicked open with a gentle push.
Oliver flinched instinctively, his small form sitting on the edge of the bed as he stared toward the entryway with wide, cautious eyes. The soft blue light from the room stretched toward the threshold—and then a figure stepped through.
A man.
He looked to be in his late 30s or early 40s, with a mess of chestnut brown hair swept lazily back and warm lines etched gently into his face, as though carved by years of smiling more than frowning. He wore beige pants, a plain white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and cradled a cardboard box in his arms filled with what looked like folded towels, some utensils, and a few plastic-wrapped books.
Following him was a woman with rich red hair, tied loosely back. She moved with a quiet kind of grace, wearing similar beige pants and a tucked-in blouse. Her figure was soft, her expression observant. She smiled briefly at Oliver but said nothing.
The man turned to Oliver and his face lit up with joy.
> "There he is," he said warmly, voice mellow like morning coffee. "There's my champ."
Before Oliver could move, think, or breathe in response, the man crossed the room, set the box on the nearby desk, and knelt beside the bed. He placed strong but gentle hands on Oliver's shoulders and pulled him in for a brief hug—firm, parental, familiar.
> "My son," the man said with affection, as if those words were both greeting and promise. "You've been sleeping like a rock, huh? Long trip, huh, buddy?"
Oliver didn't speak.
His heart was pounding. His breath caught in his throat. The hug didn't feel threatening—but it was... foreign. Unexpected. He blinked several times, stunned, confused, his mind racing as he looked at the woman, then back at the man.
The red-haired woman smiled from the doorway, her hands resting on her hips.
> "Let him adjust, Liam," she said gently. "It might take a little while."
> "Of course," Liam replied, standing up. "We've got time."
Oliver sat perfectly still, too overwhelmed to process anything aloud. His small fingers curled slightly over the white bedsheets.
> Champ. Son.
He had never seen these people before. And yet—there was no hesitation in their tone. No awkwardness. No masks. Just warmth.
Then it hit him—like a thought remembered, not discovered.
> This must be them… the 'parents' the Black Tortoise spoke of…
Not literal, perhaps. But chosen.
A place of belonging, assigned by fate, not biology.
And though Oliver's heart was still tangled with the guilt of his real parents back on Earth, a strange, reluctant sense of peace washed over him.
He looked up again at Liam, who had begun unpacking quietly across the room, humming a soft tune.
For now, Oliver said nothing.
He would observe. Watch. Try to understand.
Because maybe—just maybe—this was the kind of home he hadn't known he needed.
And maybe, in this new world, being called "champ" didn't feel so strange after all.
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