The city glowed like a sea of stars, lights stretching far into the night as if they were trying to imitate the heavens. From the rooftop of the sleek, glass-paneled skyscraper, Angel Galván stood at the edge, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored coat. His dark hair fluttered slightly in the cool summer breeze. He had always loved the night—quiet, alive, but not demanding. Up here, away from deadlines and expectations, the world felt smaller, almost manageable.
He tilted his head back and breathed in deeply.
Silence.
Then the thoughts came.
Uninvited.
Unavoidable.
His parents, long gone.
His younger brother, who no longer spoke to him.
The friends he had abandoned for career.
The stories he never wrote.
Angel chuckled bitterly. "Some legacy, huh?"
But through the ache, there was always one light—his imagination. Even now, in his late thirties, when life had wrung out most of his idealism, his mind still painted vivid scenes of heroes, monsters, kingdoms, and stars. Worlds where he could matter. Worlds where he could begin again.
A quiet crunch of gravel behind him broke his thoughts.
He turned.
A figure—tall, dark, faceless.
A shadow with weight.
"Hey," Angel said, unease crawling up his spine, "you need something?"
No answer. Just a hand.
Reaching.
Pushing.
The wind roared in his ears as the world tilted. His feet left the ledge. The stars twisted above him. The lights of the city spiraled below.
He was falling.
And in those seconds between the rooftop and the end, memories rushed in like a dam breaking.
His mother's laughter.
The smell of cinnamon at Christmas.
His brother's tiny fingers wrapping around his own.
The late nights writing sci-fi ideas into a half-broken tablet.
The first time he said, "I don't have time for that."
What happens now when I die?
Is this really it?
The air around him shimmered. Time stilled. Light folded inward. A heartbeat—his?—echoed like thunder.
Then—
Darkness.
Silence.
And the cry of a newborn.
He cried.
The sound startled even him—raw, high-pitched, helpless. His limbs flailed, small and soft, barely responding. Everything was overwhelming: the brightness above, the chill of the air, the warmth cradling him, the strange pressure in his tiny lungs.
Then a voice. Warm. Familiar.
"Oh, mi amor… you're finally here," said a woman, her words thick with love and tears. "Angelito… mi bebé."
That voice. His mother's.
But she was young. So young.
He blinked rapidly, adjusting to the blurry golden light that filtered through the window. He felt arms around him—real, solid arms. His cheek pressed against her chest, and his tiny hands instinctively grasped her soft blouse. She smelled of jasmine and something sweet—caramel maybe.
No… this can't be real, he thought. I'm… a baby?
Angel tried to speak, but all that came out was a soft gurgle.
Panic clawed at him, then fascination overtook it. His limbs were chubby. His body was… small. Weak. He glanced up and saw her—the woman who had passed away when he was fifteen—alive, radiant, smiling through tears.
He was in her arms again.
"I'm going to name you Angel," she whispered. "Because you're my miracle."
Again?
I'm Angel… again.
But it wasn't just his mother that was different. The room around them wasn't like any hospital or home he knew. Floating candles lit the walls. Strange runes glowed faintly along the stonework. A nurse walked by the open door—not with a clipboard, but a staff. And behind her, what looked like a talking book hovered midair, flipping pages by itself.
Angel blinked again.
Magic?
This… isn't my old life. This is something new.
Then, for the first time since he fell, he felt something deep within him. A pulse. Not his heartbeat—something older, wilder, unfamiliar.
The blue veins on his tiny arms lit up faintly. His mother didn't notice, but he did.
Power.
Something ancient stirred within him.
Something that didn't exist in his old world.
Angel Galván had fallen.
But he hadn't died.
He had been reborn—into a world of magic.
And this time, he wouldn't waste it.