The night sky over Riyadh was clear, stars scattered across the darkness like distant memories. Majid Al-Harthi stood on the balcony of his luxury apartment, forty floors above the glittering city, a glass of whiskey in his hand. At forty-three, he had achieved everything society defined as success—wealth, position, respect. Yet inside, he felt only emptiness.
The cool night air brushed against his face as he looked down at the traffic below, tiny cars moving like illuminated insects. How easy it would be to simply step over the railing and let gravity end the hollowness that had become his existence
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Another message from the bank, no doubt. The final notice before foreclosure. The empire he had built over two decades was crumbling, destroyed not by market forces or competition, but by betrayal—betrayal from those he had trusted most.
Majid took another sip of whiskey, feeling the burn in his throat. The alcohol no longer dulled the pain; it merely changed its texture. He thought of Zuhair Al-Nasser, his childhood friend and business partner of fifteen years, who had systematically siphoned funds from their company while feeding information to their competitors. By the time Majid discovered the betrayal, it was too late. The damage was irreversible.
Then there was Samira, his wife of twelve years, who had left him not for another man, as he might have understood, but because she "couldn't be with a failure." Her words still cut deeper than any knife.
"If only I could go back," he whispered to the night. "If only I could change it all."
He finished his drink and went back inside, closing the balcony door behind him. The apartment, once meticulously decorated, now showed signs of neglect. Papers were scattered across the coffee table—legal notices, bank statements, divorce documents.
Majid sat heavily on the sofa and picked up an old photograph. It showed him and Zuhair as children, arms around each other's shoulders, grinning at the camera. They had been inseparable then, two boys from middle-class families with dreams bigger than their circumstances.
We were going to change the world," Majid murmured, tracing his finger over the faded image. "What happened to us, Zuhair?"
He set down the photograph and picked up another—his wedding day. Samira looked radiant in her white dress, her eyes filled with love and promise. He had believed in that promise, had built his life around it.
The pain swelled inside him, a physical pressure against his ribs. He couldn't bear it anymore—the betrayal, the failure, the loneliness. He had nothing left to live for.
Majid stood and walked back to the balcony. This time, he didn't just look over the edge; he climbed onto the railing, feeling the cool metal beneath his feet. The city spread out before him, indifferent to his suffering."I'm sorry," he whispered, though he wasn't sure to whom he was apologizing.
He closed his eyes, ready to lean forward into the void. But as he teetered on the edge, a strange sensation washed over him—a tingling that began in his fingertips and spread throughout his body. The world seemed to slow down, the sounds of the city fading to a distant hum.
In that suspended moment, Majid felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to live—not the life he had now, but the life he could have had if he had made different choices. If he had seen the betrayals coming. If he had protected himself
."I wish I could go back," he said, more forcefully this time. "I wish I could change everything."
The tingling intensified, becoming almost painful. Behind his closed eyelids, Majid saw flashes of light, patterns that seemed to form and dissolve too quickly to comprehend. He felt as if he were falling, though he knew he hadn't moved.
Then, abruptly, the sensation stopped. The world was silent. Majid opened his eyes, expecting to see the city rushing up to meet him.
Instead, he found himself staring at a familiar ceiling—the ceiling of his childhood bedroom in his parents' house in Al-Khobar. Sunlight streamed through blue curtains he hadn't seen in over thirty years.
Majid sat up with a gasp, his heart pounding. He was in a single bed, much smaller than the king-size he was accustomed to. The room around him was exactly as he remembered it from his childhood—posters of football players on the walls, a small desk covered with school books, a shelf filled with action figures and comics.
He looked down at his hands—small, unblemished by age or work. He touched his face, feeling smooth skin instead of the stubble and fine lines he had grown accustomed to.
Impossible," he whispered, but his voice came out higher, a child's voice.
He scrambled out of bed and rushed to the mirror on his closet door. The face that looked back at him was his own, but not as he had known it for decades. It was the face of Majid Al-Harthi at twelve years old—round-cheeked, wide-eyed, with a mop of unruly black hair."This can't be happening," he said to his reflection. "I must be dreaming. Or dead. This is some kind of afterlife hallucination."
But everything felt too real—the cool floor beneath his feet, the smell of his mother's cooking wafting up from downstairs, the distant sound of his father's voice calling him for breakfast.
"Majid! You'll be late for school!"
The voice sent a shock through him. His father, Abdul Rahman Al-Harthi, had died of a heart attack when Majid was twenty-eight. Yet here he was, alive and well, calling up the stairs just as he had done on every school day of Majid's childhood.
Moving on instinct, Majid opened his bedroom door and walked downstairs. The house was exactly as he remembered it—the worn carpet on the stairs, the family photos on the wall, and the comforting smell of cardamom and coffee in the air.
In the kitchen, his mother stood at the stove, her back to him as she prepared breakfast. His father sat at the table, reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee steaming beside him.
"There you are," said his father, looking up with a smile. "I was about to come drag you out of bed. You don't want to be late on the first day of the new term."
Majid stared at him, unable to speak. Abdul Rahman Al-Harthi looked so young—his hair still black, his face unlined, and his eyes bright with life. This was his father as he had been before stress and age had taken their toll.
"Majid? Are you feeling alright?" His mother had turned from the stove, concern etched in her features. Fatima Al-Harthi, beautiful and vibrant, not the grief-stricken widow she would soon become.
"I... yes, I'm fine," Majid managed to say. "Just... had a strange dream."
"Well, sit down and eat your breakfast," said his mother, placing a plate of eggs and bread before him. "Dreams fade in the light of day."
Majid sat, his mind racing. This couldn't be real. People didn't just wake up in their past. Yet everything around him was too detailed, too consistent to be a mere dream or hallucination.
He ate mechanically, barely tasting the food. His parents chatted about ordinary things—his father's work at the petroleum company, his mother's plans to visit her sister, and the new neighbors who had moved in down the street.
"And don't forget, Zuhair will be waiting for you at the corner," said his mother. "You two can walk to school together like always."
Zuhair. The name hit Majid like a physical blow. Zuhair Al-Nasser, his childhood friend. The boy who would grow up to betray him, to destroy everything he had built.
"I... I think I'll walk alone today," Majid said, pushing away his half-eaten breakfast. His parents exchanged concerned glances.
"Did you two have a fight?" asked his father.
"No, I just... want to think about some things."
"Well, alright," said his mother, though she looked puzzled. "But don't dawdle. School starts in thirty minutes."
Majid went back upstairs to get ready, moving through the motions automatically while his mind struggled to make sense of what was happening. He put on the school uniform laid out on his chair, packed his backpack with books, and stood for a moment, looking around the room that had once been his entire world.
If this was real—and every sensation told him it was—then he had somehow traveled back in time. He was twelve years old again, with all the knowledge and memories of his forty-three-year-old self.
Which meant he could change everything.
The realization hit him with such force that he had to sit down on the edge of his bed. He could avoid all the mistakes, all the missteps that had led to his downfall. He could protect himself from Zuhair's betrayal, from Samira's abandonment. He could build a different life, a better life.
He could have revenge.
The thought should have disturbed him, but instead, it filled him with a cold clarity. If he had been given this impossible second chance, he would use it. He would make those who had hurt him pay—not with violence, but by ensuring they never had the opportunity to betray him in the first place.
Starting with Zuhair Al-Nasser.
Majid shouldered his backpack and went downstairs. He kissed his mother goodbye, hugged his father—an act that made the older man raise his eyebrows in surprise—and stepped out into the morning sunshine.
The neighborhood was exactly as he remembered it from his childhood—modest houses with small gardens, children walking to school, the bakery on the corner filling the air with the scent of fresh bread.
And there, waiting at the intersection, was Zuhair. Twelve-year-old Zuhair, skinny and gap-toothed, with no hint of the calculating businessman he would become.
Majid approached him slowly, studying the face of the boy who would grow up to betray him. Could he see any sign of the future betrayal? Any hint of the darkness that would emerge?
"Hey, Majid!" called Zuhair, waving enthusiastically. "Ready for another boring year?"
Majid stopped before him, momentarily at a loss for words. This was the friend he had trusted completely, the person he had shared his dreams and fears with. Looking at him now, all he could see was the man who had destroyed his life with a smile on his face.
"Majid? You okay?" Zuhair's smile faltered. "You look weird."
"I'm fine," said Majid, forcing a smile. "Just didn't sleep well."
They began walking toward the school, Zuhair chattering about his summer vacation, his new video game, the girl he had a crush on. Majid barely listened, his mind racing with possibilities.
He could simply cut Zuhair out of his life now, avoid the friendship that would lead to their business partnership and ultimately to his downfall. But that seemed too simple, too merciful. No, he wanted Zuhair to feel what he had felt—the slow, crushing weight of betrayal, the helplessness of watching everything you've built crumble around you.
"Hey, are you listening?" Zuhair nudged him. "I asked if you wanted to come over after school. My dad got me that new game I was telling you about."
Majid looked at him, at the innocent face that concealed a future traitor. "Sure," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I'd like that."
He would play the friend for now. He would let Zuhair believe that nothing had changed. But in the shadows of his mind, Majid was already plotting his revenge—a revenge that would unfold over decades, culminating in Zuhair's complete and utter destruction.
As they approached the school gates, Majid felt a strange tingling in his fingertips, similar to what he had experienced on the balcony before his apparent time travel. For a moment, the world seemed to shimmer around him, reality bending like heat waves over desert sand.
Then it passed, and everything was solid again. But the brief distortion left Majid with a nagging question:
Was this real? Had he truly traveled back in time, or was this some elaborate hallucination created by his desperate mind in the moments before death?
He had no way to know for certain. But real or not, he would act as if this second chance was genuine. He would use every day, every opportunity to reshape his destiny.
And to ensure that those who had betrayed him would never have the chance to do so again.
As he walked into the school building, Majid felt a cold smile spread across his face. His adult mind, trapped in this child's body, was already calculating, planning, seeing the long game ahead.
The game of revenge had begun.