Jack’s mom burst into the room. Upon seeing the soaked bedding and her dripping, wet son, she transformed from a curious parent into a fuming, mad mom. “Pollyanna!” she thundered. “What have I told you about taking your pranks too far?” She gestured at the drenched sheets and her sodden firstborn. Spent aether-steam hissed from the radiator pipes behind her as the brass vents clicked and expanded with the morning heat.

  Before she could say more, Jack ran to her—dragging the clattering bucket along the floor—with his arms spread wide for a hug. “Mom! Mom, I missed you,” he choked, wrapping her in his arms like he’d not seen her in twenty years.

  She smelled of home, lavender soap, warm bread, and safety.

  His mother recoiled from the damp embrace. “You saw me last night,” she said. “Did the bucket hit you in the head?” She glared at Polly. “You know how heavy those things are! You could’ve brained the poor boy.”

  His mom tugged Jack’s damp hair aside to inspect his scalp for signs of bumps and cuts. Glaring at Polly while gesticulating, she said, “Did you forget about your poor old Great Aunt Elsie?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “Hit on the head with a bucket. Dead the next morning.” She shook her head.

  His sister rolled her eyes. “I think he had a bad dream, Mom,” she remarked, attempting to sound helpful. “He should be grateful I woke him,” she added with a playful grin. “They say if you die in a nightmare, you’ll wake up dead. So, I’m a hero, saving poor Jack from waking up dead.” Though Polly tried to maintain a straight face, she couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

  Their mother groaned, and Jack couldn’t stop smiling. His mother was there, with her beautiful green eyes and a happy smile. Well, she wasn’t smiling or happy right now, but she was there. Overwhelmed by emotions, tears poured down his face. Soon, he was sobbing like a toddler who had lost his mother in a scary crowd, only to find her again.

  “I-I missed you so much, Mom.” Jack felt his mother’s hug. He’d missed this feeling more than anything else he’d lost. Don’t end. Please don’t end. I can’t lose her again.

  “It’s alright, Jack.” His mother comforted him, stroking his back with care. “Did you have a bad nightmare?” She patted his wet back. “You’re safe now.”

  Jack didn’t want to ruin the moment; still sobbing, he nodded. While absorbing the loving warmth of his mother’s hug, he closed his eyes and prayed to the Gods that he’d get enough time. Please, whoever’s controlling this, please give me time to say goodbye. Please, I’ll-I’ll do anything.

  “It’s alright. It was only a dream.” She kissed the top of his damp head before pushing him away by the shoulders to look into his eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Jack nodded.

  “That’s good,” his mom said. “Now, you need to get cleaned up before breakfast.” She was still looking at him with worry. “You do remember what today is? That it’s your sixteenth, and you get to choose your class today? Right?”

  He nodded again.

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  “It’s not anything to be worried about. With all your hard work, you’re bound to be offered scribe, just like your father.” She smiled in that way parents did when trying to reassure a child too nervous to sleep the night before a big exam.

  Jack stared, tears still glistening in his eyes. Just like Dad.

  In this world, choosing a class at sixteen was a sacred rite. Your dedication determined what classes the Choosing Stone revealed. Want to be a swordsman? Train with a sword. Dream of being an archer? Practise with a bow. But if you studied history, copied scrolls, and translated old languages, then you might be chosen as a scribe.

  A few hours from now, during his first life, he’d headed to a temple, placed his hands on a Choosing Stone, and selected Novice Scribe. Choosing a class granted him access to the Gods-gifted System and the Primary Novice Scribe Skills: [Copy Text], [Translate Text], [Draughtsmanship], [Bind Book], and [Restoration]. Over time, he learned Secondary Novice Scribe Skills like [Calligraphy], [Layout], [Emboss Text], [Cartography], [Cataloguing], and many others.

  For Jack, that had once been everything. A good, honourable class that would mean a good, safe life for him and his future family. His few friends had wanted to be flashy knights or monster hunters, but he’d loved sitting at his desk by aether light, ink-stained fingers scribbling into journals or inscribing spells on scrolls.

  His father had been an Expert Scribe. His grandfather, a prodigy, had reached Master Scribe by sixty-seven. An exceptional achievement, given that levelling slowed with age and he’d also taken the Novice Explorer and Apprentice Explorer classes! At sixteen, Jack had believed he’d level even faster; the signs were there. He’d believed in the future, but life had betrayed that belief.

  Jack thought about his father and sobbed even deeper at the thought of seeing his dad again. If this memory held true, he wouldn’t see him until the evening. He was working at the Royal Library under Baron Greaves. The thought of his father being near the murderous Baron made him shiver with both fear and rage.

  Would the death dream even last long enough for him to see his dad again?

  “Come on, Jack. You’re shivering from the cold. Go get cleaned up. You smell worse than a wet dog,” his mom said.

  Polly gave Jack a mocking, toothy grin. “That’s what I said. He stinks worse than an old dog that bathed with a dead skunk in sour milk.” She smiled even wider at the high-quality insult.

  Jack chuckled through his tears. He did stink, and he’d missed her insults. He’d stayed up half the night working by the soft, blue glow of his aether lamp, practising calligraphy to ensure he was offered the scribe class. His shirt was stained with sweat and ink, his skin sticky with nervous anticipation.

  He took a deep breath to calm himself before releasing the bear hug he’d been giving his mother. “S-sorry, Mom.” He took another deep breath to get the sobbing under control. “It-it was a really bad nightmare, and I love you.” He forced a smile. Please don’t end while I’m bathing. Please.

  His mother pulled him in for another hug. “I know. I love you too, Son.” After a dozen seconds, she released the hug. “Go get cleaned up,” she ordered, “and I’ll get breakfast ready.”

  Jack nodded.

  Their mother gave Polly a look of righteous vengeance. “And you, young lady. You’ll be cleaning everything you soaked.” She pointed at the wet bedclothes. “Everything. Then we’ll have another long conversation about boundaries and why murder-by-bucket is not a valid prank.”

  Jack smiled at this part of the memory. He knew what was coming next. As a punishment, Polly had to do all the washing for an entire month, so he’d made sure to get his clothes filthy. He recalled sitting and kneeling in mud, so his sister had a harder time cleaning his clothes. Good times.

  Polly moaned, “But, Mom, it was only a joke.” She saw Jack smiling as he left the room. “See, Mom.” She pointed towards Jack. “He’s smiling, he’s not even annoyed. Look! He’s happy.”

  Jack popped his head back around the door. “I don’t need to get annoyed. I have a mom who can do that for me.” His laughter bounded off the walls as he headed to the bathroom with the clattering bucket still attached.