Arthur had died. Of that, he was sure. He remembered the cold, the wet concrete, the sound of his own heartbeat giving up. He remembered the picture clenched in his fist. He remembered the pain. He remembered regret.
But now… he was five.
He sat on the edge of his childhood bed, staring at his hands — small, clean, trembling. The morning light fell softly through the old yellow curtains, painting stripes on the wooden floor. Everything looked... just as he remembered. Too perfect. Too painful.
His breath caught when he saw the scuff mark on the wardrobe door. The one he'd made with a toy truck twenty-five years ago. It was still there.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a memory. This was… now.
Footsteps.
He froze.
From the hallway, that voice —
"Arthur! I told you to wash your hands, not count your fingers!" It was her. His mother.
His throat tightened. He couldn't speak. Couldn't move. She walked past the open door — younger, brighter, real. Holding a plate with two pieces of toast, humming that same old tune from the kitchen radio.
Arthur's eyes burned.
He slid off the bed, feet stumbling as if he were learning to walk again. He followed her down the hall, silent and terrified.
The kitchen. Warm. Golden. The wallpaper still had the stain from when he'd spilled juice on it — and she never cleaned it fully, saying it was "part of growing up." He remembered everything. Every crack. Every sound.
His mother turned, and smiled at him.
"You look like you saw a ghost. Sit. Toast's still warm."
He sat. His legs swung freely from the chair. The table felt too high. His voice felt trapped inside a much smaller chest.
"Mom," he whispered. His voice — thin and young — cracked.
She smiled. "Yes, Arthur?" And for a second, he almost forgot she would die one day.
He didn't speak. He just looked at her. Memorizing every line, every freckle. Every second he thought he'd lost forever.
The front door creaked. His heart skipped.
Boots on the wooden floor. A coat rustled. And then — that voice.
"I smell toast and responsibility in here."
Arthur's head snapped around. His father stood at the doorway — alive, tall, tired, with laughter in his eyes and morning in his breath.
The man he'd watched die… was alive.
Arthur's lips quivered.
"Dad…"
His father raised an eyebrow. "What, no sarcastic comeback today?" Then he chuckled, walking in and ruffling Arthur's hair.
And just like that, Arthur broke.
His body shook. His chest tightened. And he cried — quietly, helplessly, into the plate of toast in front of him.
Not the tears of a child. But the sobs of a man who had failed, fallen, died — and somehow been given the unbearable mercy of beginning again.
His parents stared, confused. His mother rushed forward.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong? Did you have a bad dream?"
Arthur nodded, unable to speak. Because how do you explain to the people you lost that you've come back… just to lose them again?
That day, Arthur didn't go to school. He pretended to be sick. They let him stay in, tucked beneath warm sheets, a soft toy beside him that still smelled like old sunshine.
He lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling.
Why was he here?
This wasn't reincarnation. It wasn't heaven. It felt more like punishment… or some cruel experiment by time itself.
Was he supposed to change something? Was this his second chance to fix everything? Or was he just cursed to relive it all — again and again?
Evening came.
He stepped outside, alone, into the backyard. The air was colder now. The grass damp beneath his feet. The sky bled orange into grey.
And that's when he whispered into the wind:
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do… But if this is real… I won't waste it again."