Tajdin Rahman had always assumed that if reincarnation existed, he would come back as something majestic—maybe a falcon, maybe a billionaire's spoiled cat. At the very least, a moderately paid accountant.
He did not expect to respawn into the body of a skinny Austrian man with a ridiculous mustache.
He sat up, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. His first thought was:
"Oh no… why is my nose so itchy?"
His second thought was:
"Who the hell is cutting their mustache this unevenly?"
And then he noticed the mirror across the room.
He froze.
Staring back at him… was Hitler. Young Hitler. Pre-power, pre-army, pre-everything. Just a small, unimpressive, somewhat damp version of the future dictator.
Tajdin screamed.
Hitler's voice screamed back.
The landlady burst in, slamming open the door.
"RUHE! Some of us are trying to sleep!"
He tried to explain he wasn't Hitler. But in German, what came out instead was:
"ICH—ICH BIN… äh… NICHT… ICH."
Which sounded exactly like something a guilty person would say.
The landlady squinted at him. "Are you rehearsing again? Your art school application is tomorrow. Don't fail it like last time."
She slammed the door shut.
Tajdin stared at the closed door.
Art school?
Application??
HITLER ISN'T HITLER YET???
The horrifying truth dawned on him:
He had landed at the exact point where history still had a chance to go right… or catastrophically wrong depending on whether he sneezed too hard.
He inspected himself further.
Skinny arms? Check.
Unfortunate haircut? Check.
Early 1900s clothing? Double check.
A wallet? Empty. Great.
He stumbled to the desk and found a pile of drawings—every single one exactly as terrible as the history books claimed. Lines bent like snakes, human figures shaped like haunted noodles.
"Bro," Tajdin muttered, "you failed art school because you drew buildings like they owed you money."
He flipped through the sketches. They got progressively worse.
But then he had a realization—a powerful one. A brilliant one.
If he (Tajdin) could get Hitler into art school…
Hitler would become an artist…
And not a dictator.
No war.
No chaos.
No historical disasters.
Just one man, painting landscapes and possibly arguing about shading techniques.
The plan seemed simple.
And that's when he heard footsteps.
A roommate peeked in. "Adolf, are you ready? We'll be late. The admissions office opens at nine."
Tajdin's heart exploded in panic.
This was it.
The moment the world could be saved.
He grabbed the drawing portfolio and followed the roommate outside—determined, terrified, and deeply confused—toward the art academy that had unknowingly become the gatekeeper of Earth's fate.
As they walked, his roommate whispered, "Adolf, why do you look like you saw the Kaiser in his underwear?"
Tajdin replied with the most accurate summary of his situation:
"Because my whole existence just collapsed like a cheap folding chair."
They continued toward the academy.
Tajdin inhaled deeply.
Today, he wouldn't just fix history.
He would rewrite it.
If only he could figure out how to draw a human face that didn't look like a potato.
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