The Curious Inheritance of Oliver Grayson

A Subtle Shift

The late-afternoon light crept through the estate's dusty windows, casting elongated shadows along the corridor. Oliver walked beside the lawyer, his unsteady toddler steps softened by the padding taped around his waist. Though he'd grown used to the feeling of a diaper, each rustle still reminded him how far he was from his former life. The recent potion had stabilized his physical state—he wasn't getting any smaller—but the mental effects were another story.

They paused outside the study, where a spread of notes and open journals awaited their return. Oliver reached for the doorknob first, eager to continue hunting for clues about a "final remedy." But just as his fingers brushed the metal, he felt an odd flutter of impatience well up in his chest—like the urge to stamp his foot or let out a whine if things didn't go his way. It was a faint impulse, but sharp enough to make him blink in surprise.

"Everything all right?" the lawyer asked softly, noticing Oliver's hesitation.

Oliver quickly nodded, pushing the feeling down. "Fine," he replied, stepping into the study. The single syllable sounded more defensive than he intended, a brief reminder of how raw his emotions could be now. He took a calming breath and forced himself to focus. Don't let the childlike impulses win.

Inside, faded daylight illuminated the scattered manuscripts. Uncle Harold's journals, papers with obscure alchemical symbols, and an old ledger documenting the estate's layout—all of it beckoned. The lawyer moved to pick up a stack of Uncle Harold's letters, flipping through them with focused intent. Oliver approached slowly, wanting to help yet feeling a restless energy that made it difficult to concentrate.

He tugged at the belt around his oversized shirt, frustrated by how easily it slipped. The annoyance flared again—disproportionate for such a small inconvenience—and he caught himself huffing out loud. "Why can't I just...?" The sentence trailed off as he realized he didn't even know how to finish that complaint. He wanted things to be easier, simpler. A faint part of his mind insisted that if something was hard, it was someone else's job to fix it. Instantly, he felt another twist of alarm. I'm thinking like a child, he realized. Stop it, stay in control.

Carefully, he gritted his teeth and helped straighten the pages on the table, repeating over and over in his head: I am still an adult. Yet every so often, the corners of his thoughts tugged him toward short-tempered frustration or a sudden desire for reassurance from the lawyer. Each time it happened, a jolt of determination brought him back—he refused to let that creeping acceptance of toddlerhood define him.

"Look," the lawyer said, snapping Oliver's attention to a page in the journal. "There's a note referencing a 'sundial garden' on the estate. Something about reuniting the 'gift and the root at dawn'—think that might be important?"

Oliver peered at the text, relief washing through him at the chance to focus on something concrete. "It has to be," he said, voice steadier. "No mention of this garden in the other diaries, but maybe it's part of the final step. A place to harness...whatever magic remains."

He reached for a pen to mark the passage, but realized his fingers weren't as dexterous as before. The pen slipped, leaving an accidental smear of ink. A flash of frustration flared. Not fair! The childish exclamation practically echoed in his mind. Instead of voicing it, he forced a low sigh. "Sorry," he murmured, setting the pen aside.

The lawyer offered a patient smile. "No harm done. We'll check the estate maps for a sundial or an overgrown garden. Maybe we can scout it out before dark."

Oliver nodded, pushing away the surge of impatience that made him want to demand they run out there immediately. He told himself to stay calm, remembering that impulsive outbursts solved nothing. Despite the subtle mental tugs, he still had enough presence to maintain control—for now.

The lawyer gathered the notes, tucking them carefully under one arm. "Let's see if we can find the garden layout. We'll plan from there."

Oliver followed, forcing measured steps as they left the study. The thick diaper forced a waddling gait, yet no deeper embarrassment spiked. The feeling was strangely normal—a detail he acknowledged with quiet unease. But at least he wasn't shrinking further, and he still recognized these unsettling shifts as not entirely his.

Glancing up at the lawyer, Oliver forced a faint, determined smile. "I'll help," he said. "The best I can, anyway."

"You're still you," the lawyer reminded him gently, as though reading Oliver's unspoken worry. "Together, we'll see this through."

Oliver drew in a slow breath, pushing aside a flicker of childish irritation that whispered But I want it now! in the back of his mind. He fixed his attention on the next step: finding the sundial garden. As he padded down the corridor, he silently repeated the mantra, I'm still me, each time that subtle shift in attitude nipped at his resolve.

Though he remained trapped in a small body, and the edges of his mind felt tugged toward toddler-like impulses, Oliver Grayson held tight to his core identity. For now, the regression had stopped—but the struggle within was far from over.