Alex woke with a gasp, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to break free.
For a split second he was back in the wreck—metal twisting, glass shattering, rain pounding. Then the pain vanished, replaced by the soft give of an old mattress under his back and the faint, familiar itch of acne on his chin.
He shot upright, sheets tangling around his waist. The room snapped into focus: his childhood bedroom, exactly as he remembered it. Sunlight slanted through half-closed blinds, painting dusty gold stripes across faded Linkin Park and Eminem posters curling at the edges. The air carried the musty scent of old comic books piled on his desk, mixed with the faint, comforting bitterness of coffee brewing downstairs.
He looked down at his hands—smooth, unscarred, the knuckles still boyish. No wedding ring tan line. No calluses from years of gripping briefcases and steering wheels.
He thought, *Holy shit. It worked.*
His legs felt too long, gangly, as he swung them over the side of the bed. Bare feet hit cool hardwood, the familiar chill sending a shiver up his spine. He caught his reflection in the dresser mirror: eighteen again. Tousled brown hair sticking up from sleep, hazel eyes wide with shock, a scattering of pimples along his jaw that he hadn't seen in two decades.
On the nightstand, his flip phone buzzed—a tinny polyphonic ringtone he hadn't heard since high school. The screen lit up: a text from Jake, his old buddy. "dude u up? party @ mikes 2nite?"
January 2005. He grabbed the calendar off the wall—cheap paper, kittens on it because his mom thought they were cute. The date stared back at him: January 14, 2005.
He thought, *Right after winter break. Senior year just starting back up. Everything's still fixable.*
The house creaked softly around him, settling in the morning cold. Downstairs, the radio played low—Eminem's "Just Lose It," the beat muffled through the floorboards. His mom was up, like always. Coffee percolating, maybe oatmeal on the stove.
He dressed slowly, savoring the feel of it. Baggy jeans that actually fit his slimmer hips now, the denim stiff and new against his skin. A faded graphic tee—some band logo cracked from too many washes—rough cotton brushing his chest. Sneakers scuffed but still holding together. Everything smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the cedar closet where his clothes had hung for years.
Notebook on the desk caught his eye—plain spiral, half-used from last semester. He flipped to a blank page and started writing, pen scratching softly, ink smudging under his thumb.
Apple stock—buy soon, iPhone coming 2007.
Google still hot post-IPO.
Amazon—keep climbing.
Bitcoin—wait for 2009, cheap then.
2008 crash—sell high summer '08, buy low '09.
Katrina—August, get flood insurance quiet.
He paused, hand cramping. The list felt surreal on the page.
He thought, *No shortcuts on what matters. Hearts first. Money second.*
The stairs groaned under his weight as he headed down, each creak a memory. The kitchen opened up warm and bright—linoleum cool under his socks, the scent of coffee thick and inviting. His mom stood at the stove, back to him, stirring something in a pot. Steam curled up, carrying the sweet, nutty smell of oatmeal.
Elena turned, spatula in hand, and smiled—tired but genuine. Dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping around her face. Olive skin glowing in the morning light, green eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she said, voice warm but edged with exhaustion. "You planning to hibernate all weekend?"
He thought, *She's forty-two. Looks younger than I remember. And alive.*
"Morning, Mom," he said, crossing the room in three strides and pulling her into a hug.
She stiffened for half a second—surprised—then relaxed, patting his back. Her floral blouse was soft against his cheek, carrying the faint scent of hospital soap from last night's shift.
"Everything okay?" she asked, pulling back to study his face. "You're acting weird."
He smiled, trying to keep it casual. "Just glad to be home."
She gave him a look—half amused, half suspicious—but turned back to the stove. "Well, sit. Oatmeal's almost ready. You've got school Monday, don't forget."
He sat at the scarred kitchen table, the wood cool under his forearms. Outside the window, frost glittered on the grass, the neighbor's early-2000s minivan parked in the driveway.
He thought, *This is it. Day one. Don't screw it up.*
The radio switched to the news—something about Iraq, gas prices creeping up. Normal morning sounds. Normal life.
But not for long. Not if he had anything to say about it.