I wake up with a start, confused, immersed in the darkness of an unknown place. My last memories are vague, fragmented, with the image of the door I had found in the cave and how it had begun to glow when that last tremor started to collapse the ceiling. A feeling of disorientation enveloped me, and I had no idea where I was or how I had gotten there. All I knew was that the place I found myself in was completely unfamiliar.

  I immediately realize that my vision is blurred, unable to focus on the contours and colors around me. All I can see are patches of light and shadow that blend together in a confusing visual whirlwind. The inability to see clearly makes me feel even more lost, as if I were trapped in a dream from which I cannot wake up.

  My body feels strange, as if it isn't responding to me. But I also realize that I am in some kind of bed, as through my blurred vision I see wooden planks around me, as if I were in a kind of box open at the top, and that beneath me there is some kind of mattress.

  Suddenly, a huge figure looms over me, and its size and presence overwhelm me. In a burst of fear, I let out a scream, an instinctive expression of terror in the face of the unknown, as the feeling of vulnerability intensifies, leaving me at the mercy of this imposing presence.

  I find myself being lifted up, held in the arms of someone whose voice sounds like a familiar yet foreign language. Their words, although reminiscent of Chinese, flow in a dialect I cannot understand, so confusion mixes with fear as I try to discern my situation.

  I try to say something, but only babbling comes out of my throat.

  I notice that the figure carrying me is walking in another direction, and I take the opportunity to look around, but I only see blurry shadows, mostly at the edges of my vision. I notice something strange in the way she carries me, but still confused by the strange situation I find myself in and afraid of what the giant might do to me, I can't quite figure out where I am. After a moment, the figure holding me stops and hands me over to another figure who seems to be lying down.

  Then, they bring me close to something warm and soft, and suddenly, primal instincts take control of my body. My hands, moving of their own accord, grab what I recognize as a nipple and I begin to suckle instinctively.

  At that moment, the revelation of the strangeness I felt before hits me with the force of lightning. In some incomprehensible way, I am a baby. This realization brings with it a wave of disbelief, and for a moment I stop suckling, but saying something to me in her strange language, the owner of the breast brings my face closer to it, and the instinct of my new body makes me start suckling again.

  As I feed, the figures around me, one of whom I imagine to be my mother, exchange words in that strange language. Although I don't understand what they are saying, the tone of their conversation has a hint of everydayness that calms me slightly, offering a glimpse of normality amid the chaos that is my mind at the moment.

  After feeding, I am handed back to the gigantic figure, who I now understand is only gigantic in relation to my tiny baby size. I guess she must be some kind of midwife who helped my mother give birth.

  The woman I assume to be the midwife brings me closer to a group of blurry silhouettes, among which one stands out and takes me in her arms. I hear her talking to the others, an interaction that, although incomprehensible to me, suggests some kind of ritual or introduction. After a while, I am returned to the midwife's arms.

  With me in her arms, she takes me to another place, and carefully, they lay me down there. I recognize it as the place where I woke up and now recognize as a kind of cradle. The soft contact with the bed offers me a little comfort, and soon after, sleep overtakes me, carrying me away from my unanswered questions.

  When I wake up, a damp feeling between my legs makes me aware of my new reality and that I have wet myself. The frustration and humiliation of this fact intertwine with the resignation of having to learn to control my body again, so I begin to consider how to get someone's attention, when a disturbing realization hits me as I realize that I have been moving my arms but have not yet moved my legs.

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  With a growing sense of panic, I concentrate on trying to command them to move, but there is no response. I can feel them, but no matter how hard I try, I am unable to move even a toe, let alone my legs. The reality that my new body is paraplegic from birth hits me with full force, and a scream of fear escapes my lips, a scream that carries with it the full weight of my despair and confusion.

  My screams break the silence, and soon I hear hurried footsteps approaching. As I try to process what it means to be unable to move my legs, I try to convince myself that it's only temporary, that it's something to do with the strange situation of being a baby, but deep down a little voice tells me no, that what it seems is what it is. And as I feel someone pick me up, the stress of my new situation and the possibility that I might be paraplegic or something similar hits me, causing me to faint.

  I wake up suddenly and notice that my body is on a hard surface that feels like wood. The sensation of the wood against my skin is disconcerting, but somehow it reminds me of my current situation and that I am in a strange place, surrounded by people I don't know and, for some strange reason, trapped in the body of a baby. Around me, blurry figures lean toward me, their outlines barely perceptible through the limited vision of a baby, a vision that turns the world I see into a place of shadows and undefined lights.

  These figures, whose details escape my vision, seem to be examining me as they discuss among themselves in their strange language that sounds like Chinese, but isn't. Thanks to my knowledge of Chinese, although I can't understand their words, I recognize in the tone of their conversation a mixture of professional curiosity and concern that conveys the seriousness of my situation.

  I notice figures approaching the sides of the surface where I am lying, and suddenly I feel hands gently holding my arms while firmly immobilizing them. Another figure approaches, holding something in their hand that I cannot identify due to my blurred vision.

  Suddenly, I feel a prick, quickly followed by another. Considering the language they speak and what little I can make out of their clothes, I jump to the conclusion that they must be practicing acupuncture, since in ancient China it was considered nothing short of a cure-all.

  For a moment, the logic of my past life reassures me. After all, acupuncture is known for its therapeutic benefits, but then, as I receive another prick, I realize my situation and, driven by an instinct for self-preservation, I start screaming and moving, trying to free myself from the needles stuck in me, since a baby who neither screams nor cries when pricked would be too strange, and who knows what they might do to me next in that case. They might even consider me possessed or a demon, with fatal consequences for me.

  On my fourth attempt to break free, the figure stabbing me with the needles stops abruptly, saying something in their language before quickly removing the needles. Hearing this, the others release my arms, freeing me. I continue to move, now adding convincing whimpering to my act, until, unexpectedly, I feel a new prick, this time on the sole of my foot. I let out an instinctive moan and try to move my legs, only to remember with a jolt of horror the revelation of my paralysis discovered before I passed out earlier.

  The figure continues to prick my legs several more times, at which point I can do nothing but whimper and scream to keep up the act as I struggle unsuccessfully to elicit some response from my limbs, but to no avail. This lack of connection with my own legs is disconcerting, and if it weren't for the fact that I had used them so naturally in my previous life, I might have doubted that they were something that could be moved.

  They stop pricking me with needles and I hear them say something in a very serious tone. Shortly after, I am lifted up in their arms and handed over to a figure that seems familiar to me. They walk away with me in their arms and hand me over to someone who is lying down. As I focus my attention, I recognize the person who fed me the day before. Next to them, the figure who had been administering the needles joins the conversation. The voice of the person I assume to be my mother becomes increasingly agitated, until she finally bursts into tears, pressing me against her chest with an embrace that borders on the line between comfort and pain. Despite my discomfort, I choose to remain silent, convinced that, at this moment, it is the most prudent decision.

  The situation takes a new turn when, after a while, another figure approaches, the same one who had lifted me up during the previous ritual. After a brief exchange with my mother, she pulls me even closer to her. My moans, soft at first, become more noticeable, urging her to loosen her grip. After a brief conversation in a serious tone, the man, who I imagine must be my father, or at least some figure of authority, considering how Chinese families and clans work, turns around and walks away out of my sight.

  My mother continues to hold me for a long time. Then, with a gesture that is now familiar to me, she brings me to her breast to feed me, and despite the embarrassment I feel at this act, the instincts of my new body betray me, and I soon find myself eating with a need born of that instinct.

  Once sated, I am placed back in the crib, the same place where I had awakened, and sleep quickly claims me, dragging me into a world of darkness and silence. In the moments before succumbing to sleep, the thought crosses my mind that being a baby, regardless of the unusual circumstances of my consciousness, involves a great deal of sleep.