Los Angeles — September 2001
The drive up to Los Angeles felt surreal.
It wasn't just the city skyline shimmering in the morning haze or the towering billboards of movie stars Ethan used to admire from afar. It was the weight of déjà vu—returning to a place he had once known intimately, only this time without the bitterness of failure gripping his ribs.
He drove his father's old Honda Civic, the engine coughing every time he stopped at a red light. The radio played Destiny's Child and Outkast, music from a time he once thought he'd outgrown. Now those songs felt like a portal—reminding him that this world was young again, full of untouched possibilities.
He pulled into the parking lot of the old CBS studio building, the same place where ER filmed most of its interior scenes. The sign above the entrance looked crisper, newer, unweathered by years of sun bleaching. The security guard booth looked tiny, almost quaint, compared to what he remembered.
And Ethan… he felt like an intruder.
He had been here before—twenty years from now, in his first life—walking these same halls for bit-part auditions. He remembered the sweat on his palms, the tremble in his voice, the constant feeling of being "less than." That memory haunted him like the ghost of a forgotten dream.
But he wasn't that man anymore.
He stepped out of the car and inhaled deeply.
You're not eighteen. Not really. You've lived a life. Use it.
He approached the security booth. An older guard with a newspaper and a cup of coffee looked up at him.
"You here for the ER general call?" the guard asked.
Ethan nodded. "Yeah."
The guard slid a clipboard toward him. "Sign in. Casting offices are down the hall, Room 2C."
As Ethan scribbled his name, a strange warmth washed through him. This wasn't a dream. He was really back. He was really about to audition again—except this time, he had nearly two decades of emotional experience behind him.
He walked through the studio gates. The familiar sounds hit him instantly: rolling carts, distant laughter, the clack of heels from stressed production assistants sprinting across pavement. The scent of coffee, dusty set props, and fresh paint lingered in the air.
Every detail felt sharper.
Every moment, a chance to do things right.
He entered the casting waiting room. It was already filling with hopeful young actors—some reading lines loudly and anxiously, some pacing, some wearing overly dramatic outfits as if trying to impress with wardrobe instead of talent.
A few glanced at Ethan curiously, maybe wondering why he wasn't panicking or practising. He sat down calmly, his back straight, breathing controlled. He didn't need to memorise the sides. He had already read them last night—with twenty years of hindsight and the pain of a man who once knew what it felt like to lose everything.
He studied the other actors. Most were kids trying to break into the industry, eager but inexperienced. He could see nerves radiating off them in waves.
One kid beside him turned and whispered, "Hey, man, you seem… chill. Aren't you nervous?"
Ethan smiled gently. "I've done harder things."
The kid blinked. "Like what?"
Ethan thought of 20 years of heartbreak, poverty, loneliness, failed dreams, anxiety, and regret.
"Life," Ethan said simply.
The kid nodded, confused but impressed.
The door opened. A rushing casting assistant, her hair flailing behind her, called out:
"Ethan Hale?"
His heart thumped once—hard.
"Here," he said, rising immediately.
She looked him up and down, then back at her clipboard, then at him again.
"You're… eighteen?"
"Yes."
"You read older."
"People tell me that."
"Huh." She shrugged. "Follow me."
He stepped inside the small, cold audition room.
Two casting directors sat behind a long table. A camera was set up on a tripod. A coffee cup with lipstick marks rested precariously near the edge of the table. A script lay open.
The male casting director raised one eyebrow.
"Ethan Hale," he read from a sheet. "San Diego?"
"Yes."
"You've… never done any professional work?"
"Not yet."
The woman beside him glanced up. There was something familiar in her eyes—fatigue, disappointment, a longing for something real in an industry full of plastic performances.
"Okay," she said, leaning forward. "We're reading for a small paramedic part. Three lines. But it has emotional weight. You're delivering bad news to a mother while trying to maintain composure. You ready?"
Ethan swallowed.
He wasn't just ready—he had lived this.
"Whenever you're ready," the man said.
The camera blinked red.
Ethan didn't perform.
He didn't act.
He didn't try to impress.
He felt.
He thought about the nights he had spent in his first life delivering metaphorical "bad news" to himself—doors closing, opportunities dying, hope fading. He remembered sitting alone in his apartment, telling himself it was "okay," even when everything inside him screamed it wasn't.
And with that, he stepped into the scene.
His voice was steady but fragile. Soft but restrained. His eyes held the heaviness of someone who didn't want to hurt the person in front of him but had no choice.
"I'm sorry," he said, the line trembling with genuine emotion. "We… we did everything we could."
The female casting director froze mid-note. Ethan saw it in her expression—the sudden, unexpected shift from passive observing to being pulled into the moment.
He continued the other two lines, layering them with sincerity. Not melodrama. Just truth. His truth.
When he finished, the room was quiet.
No scribbling.
No whispers.
Just silence.
Then the male caster exhaled slowly.
"…How old did you say you were again?"
Ethan gave a small smile. "Eighteen."
The woman leaned back in her chair, eyes never leaving him.
"Where did you train?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"Life," he repeated softly.
A spark flickered in her eyes.
She turned to her colleague. They exchanged a silent conversation with just their eyebrows and shared experience. Ethan had seen this before—this was the "We might've found something rare" look.
Finally, the woman closed the folder.
"Ethan… we'd like to have you back for a callback tomorrow morning."
The air left his lungs in a quiet rush.
A callback.
A real callback.
Not a pity one.
Not a throwaway.
A real one.
"Thank you," he said quietly, grounding his voice.
She smiled faintly.
"Actually… you don't need to thank us. Thank yourself."
He left the room with his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Outside, the other actors looked at him, trying to read his expression. The kid beside him from earlier asked, "How'd it go?"
Ethan paused.
He didn't want to sound arrogant.
But for the first time in two lifetimes, he knew the truth.
"I think…" he breathed, "…my life just started."
He walked out of the studio into the sunlight.
The city looked different.
The sky looked brighter.
His lungs felt freer.
A callback.
A second chance.
A new beginning.
Twenty years ago, he had blown this moment.
Today, he had owned it.
And for the first time in his new life, he allowed himself to smile—
not with fear,
not with desperation,
but with hope.
Real, warm, beautiful hope.