Mom and son?

The warm wind pleasantly brushed against her bare arms, playing with the thin fabric of the dress that Leyla tried to ignore and pretend wasn’t there. She clutched the stem of a pink flower in her hand, a faint warmth radiating from it, like from a living heart. Her new breasts swayed with every step, and it was unbearably strange. Leyla, though she’d prefer to be called Liam, the former teenager, felt her body still prickling with goosebumps at the touch of the fabric against her skin, at the weight of her tits, at how her hips softly brushed together with each step. A couple of times, she instinctively tried to slouch, as if that could hide her new curves, but the light fabric of the dress only emphasized them, making every movement even more deliberate.

— Mom, I can’t handle this… — Leyla groaned, gripping the damned flower tighter in her hand.

— And you think I can! — a thin, cracked voice, almost childlike, nearly hysterical, flared up beside her. It was unbearable for her to realize that he, a grown woman, was now walking in this childish body, feeling as strange as humanly possible. But then she stopped and jerked her head up, realizing her son was struggling even more right now. — God… Sorry, Liam, I didn’t…

Jasmine exhaled shakily and raised her tiny hands to her face, as if trying to wipe away this ridiculous voice, this alien body, this impossible transformation from a grown woman into this. She couldn’t stand looking at her son, now standing there staring at her, dressed in a dress and sporting a woman’s body that could’ve passed for her mother’s. Mother? That thought suddenly seemed almost logical to her.

— Why aren’t we going back to that temple? — Liam’s voice, or rather Leyla’s, sounded tense, almost desperate.

Jasmine, now the name of Jane, who until recently had been an archaeologist from the US, here in Lebanon on a grant-funded dig, tilted her head up, her short, dark curls trembling on her shoulders.

— Because… — the little girl hesitated, lowering her gaze. — Because I don’t know where to go…

Leyla frowned.

— But you’re an archaeologist, Mom, why? — Leyla squeezed the flower so hard its petals quivered and looked away, feeling her hair tickle her skin again and flinching from it. She sounded more adult than Jasmine, of course, but that didn’t make it easier—after all, she’d only recently gone through puberty as Liam, getting used to a male voice. — Where are we even? Where did that temple send us?

Jasmine realized she didn’t know how to answer or how to comfort her son. In the hour they’d been in these bodies, she only felt her knowledge growing more and more muddled. She chalked it up to stress and decided they just needed to keep moving, toward something that felt familiar. But the further they went, the more she realized it only got more confusing, and now… Now, hearing the words of this grown woman who was her son, she felt a wave of helplessness and even fear.

She suddenly reached for Leyla’s hand, but her childish fingers only weakly closed around her wrist. Leyla flinched at the unexpected fragility of the touch. She’d always seen strength and confidence in her mother, but now, looking at Jasmine’s delicate little fingers, she felt oddly responsible, adult, even maternal. That thought sparked a boiling panic inside her.

— I don’t know, and… I’m scared, Liam… — Jasmine whispered quietly, forgetting again that her son was now a grown woman. There was so much raw helplessness in her voice that Leyla felt a sharp pang of pity and guilt all at once.

— Mom, don’t say that, — she said with effort, trying to adjust to the soft timbre of her new voice and the strange accent that crept into her words on its own, as if the body came with someone else’s memories and an entirely foreign language. — We’ll find a way out. We have to.

Her heart pounded wildly under her breasts, reminding her of who she’d become. Leyla adjusted her dress again instinctively, feeling the soft waves of fabric brush her knees, and it was weird, irritating, and somehow thrilling all at once. She caught herself tucking an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture she’d only ever seen from her female classmates. Now it felt natural, even calming.

Jasmine walked silently beside her, her little legs barely keeping up with Leyla’s long strides. She looked at her daughter—God, why does she think of Jasmine as her daughter, and why does it feel so natural?—and felt languages and concepts tangling in her mind. English seemed more and more alien to her, giving way to warm, flowing Arabic words that rose as if from the depths of her new childish heart.

— I feel like I know these trees, — Jasmine suddenly whispered, stopping and shifting her gaze to the sprawling branches of tall cypresses. A pensive flicker crossed the girl’s eyes, like a memory of something long forgotten.

— Have you been here before? — Leyla asked, noticing how her own voice grew more confident in the new language. She marveled at the strange fluidity of the Arabic words slipping from her lips, as if they’d been hers since birth.

— I don’t know… Maybe in a past life? — Jasmine’s voice broke on the last word, and the girl sniffled again, burying her face in Leyla’s skirt.

Leyla gently placed a hand on Jasmine’s head, feeling the softness of her hair and discovering an unexpected tenderness within herself that hadn’t been there before.

— Leyla, Jasmine! Where have you been? — a male voice broke into the garden, warm and familiar, making Leyla’s heart skip a beat. She snapped her head up and froze, as if paralyzed. Something stirred inside her, as though her new female body knew this voice, craved it, responded to it in a way she’d never experienced as Liam.

From behind the thick greenery, a tall man emerged—tanned face, thick black beard, and attentive, slightly worried eyes. His dark gaze softened the moment he saw them, and Leyla felt a surge of strange tenderness within her. She suddenly realized she knew his name, even the feel of his touch, how his lips kissed her neck—memories she shouldn’t have flooded in, knocking the breath out of her.

— Khalid… — the name slipped from her lips before she could think. It sounded so natural, as if she’d spent her whole life whispering it before sleep, pressed against his broad chest.

The man approached and gently touched her shoulders, glancing at the pink flower in her hand. He frowned slightly but said nothing, only carefully pried it from her fingers, sending a strange, warm shiver through Leyla’s body. Now she felt utterly defenseless, as if that flower had been the last tether to her past, to her true self.

— You look like you’ve seen a ghost, — Khalid’s voice was soft, deep, slightly teasing, but worry flickered in his eyes. — You both vanished out of nowhere, and I was starting to think you’d gotten lost in our own garden.

He chuckled softly, and Leyla instinctively smiled back, stunned by how naturally her body reacted to his presence. Her cheeks burned, her heart raced, sparking a fresh wave of confusion.

— We… we were just walking, — she said in Arabic, surprised by the confidence in her voice, as if she’d spoken the language her entire life. She felt Jasmine’s tiny fingers grip her hand tighter, as if the girl was afraid to let go even for a moment. — Sorry.

Khalid smiled, and Leyla felt her heart melt, warmth spreading through her veins—tenderness she didn’t know and didn’t want to feel. It was strange and unsettling to feel so needed, so feminine, so alive next to this man whose presence somehow filled the gaps in her memory and life.

— Mama’s tired, Papa, — Jasmine suddenly said, lifting her gaze to the man before dropping it again, as if shy of her own boldness. Her voice carried so much trust and love that Leyla barely held back a gasp of surprise.

Papa? She looked at the girl, then back at the man, whose face lit up with a smile that ignited a warmth inside Leyla, heating her whole body, making her forget who she used to be. Her new reality didn’t feel so alien anymore, as if this was her life—beside this man who looked at her like she was the most important woman in his world.