It was a strange day for Colin—one of those days where the air felt heavier than usual, like the world was holding its breath. He had just left the mall, flipping through a book he had picked up from a discount bin titled "Reincarnation: Myths, Memories, and Mysteries." It was a curiosity buy, something to read on the bus ride home. As he walked, eyes glued to the pages, he barely noticed the screech of tires or the blur of metal rushing toward him.

The impact came in a flash—pain, motion, a blur of light and sound—and then nothing.

Silence.

Darkness.

Then… a sound. Soft music? A mobile spinning above?

Colin’s eyes fluttered open.

The ceiling was… wrong. It wasn’t the open sky or even a hospital ceiling. It was pastel-colored, adorned with cartoon stars and animals. The room smelled faintly of talcum powder and warm milk. Confused, Colin tried to sit up—but something was wrong. His limbs felt stubby and weak, like they didn’t belong to him. Panic fluttered in his chest as he looked down at his hands—or rather, pudgy little fists with dimples where knuckles used to be.

He opened his mouth to call for help, but what came out was not speech. It was a high-pitched, wet-sounding babble that startled even himself. “Guh-bwah!”

His heart began to race. What the hell was going on?

He turned his head, struggling with the awkward weight of it. His neck muscles were weak, untrained. He caught sight of a mirror propped against the wall near the crib. What he saw made the breath catch in his tiny chest.

Staring back at him was a baby—a one-year-old baby girl with chubby cheeks, a tuft of curly dark hair, and wide, intelligent eyes. Eyes that looked terrified. His eyes. Her eyes.

Then it hit her. Or rather, it hit Colin—or who used to be Colin. Her bladder released, a warm sensation spreading across her lower half. She instinctively squirmed, whimpering in confusion as the diaper beneath her dress began to swell with wetness. The sensation was humiliating… alien… yet disturbingly natural.

“No… no no no,” she tried to say, but it came out in more garbled babble and a loud cry that immediately summoned the sound of footsteps approaching.

Colin—or whatever she was now—was no longer a 21-year-old man on the cusp of starting a promising music career. She was a one-year-old baby girl. A tiny, helpless infant with barely enough strength to lift her head, let alone play guitar or perform on stage.

The loss hit her like a wave. Her adult body, her freedom, her life—all stripped away and replaced with this tiny, smelly, squirming form. A living, breathing creature in constant need: of warmth, of feeding, of cleaning. She was wearing her toilet now. She had no choice.

But as she lay there, limbs flailing with limited control, she began to piece things together. Her adult mind, her memories—they were still intact. She could remember chords, lyrics, moments from college. Her vocabulary and sense of self were unshaken. It was her body that had changed.

It was humiliating, yes… but maybe not hopeless.

If she still had her knowledge, maybe she could grow faster than others. Excel in school. Learn to speak early. Maybe even find out why this had happened—was it the book? Fate? Punishment? A second chance?

But all of that would take time.

For now, the former Colin was trapped in a fragile body with stubby legs, twitchy fingers, and a drool-slick chin. She had to relearn how to walk, how to speak clearly, how to use the toilet.

She felt her face flush with baby tears again—not just from confusion, but frustration. For the moment, she was a smelly, squirmy baby girl lying in a wet diaper, unable to explain who she was or what had happened.

And yet, deep inside, she swore: This isn’t over. I’ll figure this out.

But first… someone needed to change her.