It’s been a week since I arrived at the house, and finally, the exhaustion that had me napping all day seems to be easing up. At last, I have the energy to tackle a pressing issue that’s been circling my mind since I first opened my eyes in this new life. I needed to answer one crucial question: What do I look like now? My body, my appearance.

Being a newborn with limited mobility—and constantly swaddled so tightly that escape was impossible—I hadn’t been able to figure it out until today.

I’d been left in a crib in the corner of a spacious room, likely my parents’ bedroom. Around me were a large bed, some nightstands, and a wardrobe. Each piece of furniture looked handmade—or hoofmade, to be more precise. But what caught my attention most was the mirror. Positioned perfectly, it reflected my crib, and finally, I’d get to see myself.

Taking advantage of the fact that my two “twin” sisters were sound asleep, I leaned toward the edge of the crib and fixed my gaze on the mirror. The image staring back at me was… unexpected, to say the least.

My eyes were large and bright, framed by cyan-colored fur. Yes, cyan. Subtlety, it seemed, was not going to be my strong suit here. As if that weren’t enough, a pink mane tumbled in messy tufts over my head.

“Pink?” I muttered internally, though it came out as nothing more than a faint gurgle.

I examined my reflection more closely, hoping for some sort of optical illusion or misunderstanding. But no. The truth stared back at me: a combination of blue and pink—two colors I never would’ve chosen in my past life. I tried not to judge myself, but this combo felt like reincarnation’s way of saying, “Surprise! This time you’re going to be adorable… and girly.”

“Go to hell, universe,” I screamed internally.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I inspected myself further. I glanced from my reflection to my actual body, poking and prodding to confirm my suspicions. A wave of relief swept over me—I was still a boy. A boy who looked like a girl, but still, a boy.

“Is this a joke? Even my stupid pink tail looks like cotton candy. Double hell to you, universe,” I mentally shouted, raising a metaphorical fist in defiance.

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to process the situation. In my old life, this might’ve caused a full-blown identity crisis. Now, however, it felt more like a cosmic joke—a reminder that this reincarnation wasn’t going to make anything easy for me. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that, above all, I’m a survivor. The universe could throw whatever it wanted my way; I’d just throw it right back.

Opening my eyes again, I resigned myself to the sight of this adorable… colt? (or whatever they’re called here) with pastel blue and pink fur staring back at me. I smirked wryly. If I was going to survive this time around, maybe it was time to start laughing at how ridiculous life could be.

With a sigh of resignation, I flopped back into the crib. One thing was clear: someone, somewhere in a higher plane, was having way too much fun at my expense. I’m a horse—and to top it off, one that looks like a filly. As I grumbled to myself, my sister Pinkamena shifted in her sleep, her equally pink mane falling across my face like a fluffy curtain.

A month has passed since I discovered, much to my misfortune, what I look like. During this time, I’ve been carried from place to place in my parents’ hooves.

Today, they set me down on the floor, encouraging me to crawl toward them with their hooves outstretched. Their faces were expectant, almost blank in their anticipation. I decided to play along. During the first few attempts, I feigned ignorance about what I was supposed to do. After all, this is a big moment for parents—you’ve got to warm up the audience for the main event.

By the third attempt, I dropped the act and shuffled toward them. There’s no need to point out that my plan was a smashing success. I even think I saw a tear glimmer in my father’s eye… or at least, I hope I did. It’s hard to say for sure.

What surprised me most was the strange sensation of moving freely for the first time—albeit in a way that was unsettlingly… quadrupedal. Crawling on all fours is natural for babies, sure, but now, as a pony, this would be my standard mode of walking.

My movements were clumsy and primitive, but they left me with one sobering thought: I was going to miss being bipedal.

Putting aside my depressing memories of being human and now living as a pony, there’s something curious I’ve noticed: despite everything, we don’t seem to be struggling financially. When we eat in the living room around the wooden table, there’s usually decent food on the plates. That said, I’ve occasionally seen them nibble on what appears to be actual rocks—as casually as one might eat bread. I suppose these "rocks" are just some kind of local food that happens to look like stones. Still, setting aside the edible geology, it does make me wonder: how do we sustain ourselves when the farm, as far as I can tell, is just a collection of rocks and stones of varying sizes, with no sprawling crop fields in sight?

For now, I’ll shelve that question for later.

Another interesting thing is how much they talk to me these days. I’ve entertained the idea of responding with something outrageous like “I know what you did last summer” or “Feed your dark lord, mortal!” just to see their reactions. It would be hilarious, no doubt. But… I’d rather not start off on the wrong hoof. There could be repercussions that I’m too lazy to deal with, so sticking to silence for now seems like the wiser, albeit duller, choice.

It’s been about five months since I arrived in this strange world. By now, it feels like home, though I’ll admit I’m still getting used to this adorable, pint-sized version of myself. What’s impressed me most, however, is the peculiar family dynamic I’ve observed. The atmosphere here is warm, even if it often feels serious. My parents have a unique style that doesn’t quite fit the typical image of farmers.

My father, Igneous, is... intriguing. In his presence, it’s like everyone instinctively moves with a little more care. He’s serious, composed, and every word he speaks seems measured—delivered with the precision of someone who rehearsed it beforehand. He’s not the type to smother you with hugs or sweet words, but his actions make it clear he cares. He has this strange way of being distant yet undeniably present. While he rarely shows emotion, there are these subtle, almost microscopic gestures—like the faintest nod or the smallest twitch of a smile—that reveal he’s not as stoic as he seems. He’s firm, but deep down, he’s affectionate in his own way. His approval is often communicated through a single glance or a silent nod.

My mother, Cloudy, is similar to him, but a little more open. She shares his calmness and firmness but is the first to let her guard down when we’re alone. She kneels to our level, speaking to us in soft whispers, and there’s a warmth in her voice that’s impossible to miss. Her expression might be reserved, but every now and then, there’s a glimmer in her eyes that says more than words ever could. Still, she’s serious and no-nonsense, just like my father.

Then there are my sisters. They’re still young, so it’s hard to know exactly how they’ll turn out, but here’s my early assessment:

Limestone Pie, the eldest, is the one with the killer glare. She’s the least patient of us all and seems to be the family’s tough one. I wouldn’t be surprised if she grows up to be the type who throws a punch first and asks questions later—or someone who wouldn’t hesitate to jump into a fight to protect someone she cares about. It’s too soon to say for sure, but she’s got that vibe.

Next is Maudileena Daisy Pie. She’s the calm in the middle of the storm. Reserved, perhaps even a bit distant, she often watches others with quiet curiosity. There’s something oddly comforting about her tranquil presence. Honestly, I like her already. Her calm, expressionless demeanor makes my own laid-back attitude seem less out of place. I barely know her, but she’s already my favorite.

Then there’s Pinkamena Diane Pie, the pink one who shares shades of our rosier mane colors. For now, she’s just a typical baby—though she has this habit of hanging her head low, with her straight mane covering her face, which gives her a rather gloomy appearance. That’s about it for now.

Marble Pie is the penultimate member of the family—and older than me by a whole twelve minutes. She’s the shyest and most timid of us all, often looking like she’s about to cry at the slightest provocation. She’s the one who cries the most, by far.

And finally, there’s me: Echorellian Crumble Pie, the youngest of the family and the only colt.

What a set of names, huh? For some reason, my parents are obsessed with rocks, to the point of naming us after them—sometimes with dessert-related puns thrown in. Except for Pinkamena, of course. Honestly, I didn’t understand why they gave me such an elaborate name, Echorellian, until I broke it down: Ech-ore-llian. Really? When I figured it out, I couldn’t help but laugh. What a ridiculous name.

Still, this family dynamic fascinates me. With everything that’s happened—dying, reincarnating, a new life and body—taking a moment to observe what I have in front of me feels like a breath of fresh air. Lately, though, there’s something oddly familiar about them, about this place. I just can’t quite put my hoof on it yet.

Something about this world always seems to hover at the edge of my memory, like a word I’m trying to recall or an image just out of reach. Everything here—the colorful ponies, the storybook landscapes, the peculiar names—feels eerily familiar, like a memory I can’t fully grasp. Most of the time, I can brush it off, but there are moments when it lingers, a persistent shadow in the corners of my mind. It feels like there’s something I’m meant to understand, something I’ve seen before... but where?

Sometimes, I wonder if all of this is just a string of coincidences or if it’s some fragment of an old memory left behind in my previous life. Maybe I knew these ponies, these places, in some forgotten part of my past, but I have no way of knowing. For now, I’ll keep moving forward, though I can’t shake the suspicion that there’s something important my mind has locked away.

I try to remember, to untangle the threads of familiarity. But it’s always the same: a whisper in my mind, a sensation slipping away just as I feel I’m about to grasp it.

“Maybe one day I’ll remember,” I tell myself, though it’s not like I have much choice but to live here and see what time reveals. This life, strange as it is, is mine now, and if that spark of familiarity ever becomes clearer, I’ll be ready to face it.

Until then, this mystery is just another item on my growing list of things to worry about later—a list that’s starting to pile up.

Today’s the day! I was finally allowed outside the house. Granted, I’m still being carried underhoof and carefully watched, but hey, it’s something! I can finally take a proper look at the world beyond my house since I first arrived.

The scenery hasn’t changed much since the last time I caught a glimpse. I sighed, taking it all in. Just a few feet from the front door, I was being held securely by my mother alongside Pinkamena, while Marble snoozed peacefully in her crib inside the house.

Curiosity got the better of me as I tried to make sense of the work that puts food on the table here. Maybe the last time I saw the fields, they had already harvested, or something like that (not that I know the first thing about farming). Yet, as I scanned the land, it was just as I remembered—fields covered in rocks, bordered by a wooden fence.

To my surprise, I saw my father out in the fields, working. He was using his head to move rocks from one place to another, piling them onto a cart already loaded with stones of various shapes and sizes.

I suspected it might be time to clear the fields for planting crops. Could it be corn? Apples? Berries? Vegetables?

My father approached us after placing a large rock by the cart, which was nearly overflowing with stones. He stopped to speak with my mother, and when he noticed me watching, he gave a brief nod of acknowledgment before returning to their conversation.

“—The rock harvest has been decent this year,” he said in his usual solemn tone, though there was a faint undertone of concern. “But we’re still far from covering this month’s expenses. The stones are varied and of good quality, but we’ll need more, especially with our family growing.”

My mother nodded with a sigh, her expression a mix of understanding and resignation. “I know, dear. Let’s hope the next season brings a fruitful stone.” Her words were filled with hope, albeit a hope tinged with stubborn determination. The phrase “fruitful stone” sounded odd, but in their voices, it felt as natural as if they were talking about apples or wheat.

With a resigned tone, my father added, “For now, we have no other choice. We’ll have to double down on work over the next couple of weeks, at least for the two of us.” He glanced at my sister, who was yawning and on the verge of dozing off. “They’re still far too young to move even a pebble,” he remarked, giving me a light tap on the belly with his hoof.

My ears perked up, straining to catch every word. The scene felt surreal, like something out of a bizarre parody: a family of pony farmers discussing a rock harvest. Rocks? An incredulous, bewildered thought shot through me. Rocks!? Could it be? Were we actually on a rock farm?

The realization hit me like a hammer, leaving me momentarily speechless.

"ROCKS?!" I screamed internally, a dizzying wave of disbelief crashing over me as my thoughts spiraled out of control. How could a farm exist where the primary “crop” was… stones? I wanted to reject the very idea, but then all the little details started falling into place like pieces of some absurd puzzle: the times my parents mentioned the “good stones” of the year, the decorations in the house that weren’t flowers or colorful paintings but meticulously stacked or intricately carved rocks. Even one of our “toys” was a smooth, round stone with comically painted eyes—apparently a family heirloom passed down through generations.

Was this real? I didn’t want to believe it… but the evidence was impossible to ignore. The house was practically a shrine to rocks. Every corner had some kind of mineral display: polished stones, carved figures, or just plain, unassuming boulders. Outside, instead of lush green fields, there was only an expanse of rocks of all shapes and sizes. From dull gray pebbles to sparkling shards of crystalline quartz, and larger, smoother stones that looked as if they’d been carefully handpicked.

I whispered to myself, almost in resignation, “Rocks? Rock farming?” The realization sank in like a heavy weight pressing on my mind. Watching my father continue his work, moving rocks with complete focus and dedication, I began to understand: for them, this was completely normal.

Had I mentioned how ridiculous things were getting? Because this—this—was easily the most ridiculous thing I’d ever witnessed in either of my lives. And that’s saying a lot.

But what did it mean? Rock farmer?

Welcome to your new life, Echo, I thought, caught somewhere between resignation and a bizarre sense of fascination.

Author's Note

Echo takes a good look at his appearance.

Living together for a short time has given him his first real glimpse of his large, peculiar family.

He’s just uncovered his harsh reality: being a rock farmer.

Fun fact: While writing this part, I found myself debating Echo’s gender—whether to make him a mare or a stallion. To help decide, I made a comparative outline:

• If Echo were a mare: The story would lean more into comedy, with funny moments where she’d get annoyed whenever this was brought up.
• If Echo were a stallion: It would open the door to a future romance plot. (Yes, I know it could be mare-with-mare, but I like balance, and I’m not particularly experienced with writing romance—or any romance, to be honest—so I leaned toward the more classic option of boy-meets-girl for simplicity’s sake.)

Ultimately, I decided to take the best of both worlds: a stallion with a mare-like appearance, combining comedy and the potential for romance.

Thank you for reading!