IRIS

I don’t expect anything to feel different.

But it does.

Maybe it’s the sleep. Maybe it’s the food. Maybe it’s just the fact that I asked for this, that I chose this time around. Whatever the reason is, something in me clicks into place as I lace up my boots and step outside the next morning.

The air is crisp, the kind that bites a little when you inhale too deep. Mist still curls along the treetops, low and silver, and the clearing looks the same as always, worn grass, flattened earth, the old wooden post where my grandfather keeps the training weapons. Nothing’s changed.

Except me.

My grandfather’s...