I stayed still for a long time, listening to the familiar sounds that filled the house. The distant cry of seagulls, the quiet creak of old wooden beams, and the rhythmic clatter of tools from outside blended together into a morning that should no longer exist. Everything felt too real to be a dream.
The blanket felt rough against my skin, the floor cold beneath my feet, and the air heavy with the smell of oil and salt. This wasn't a memory or a reconstruction of the past. It was my childhood room, unchanged and undeniably real.
I slowly raised my hands in front of my face. They were smaller than I remembered, unmarked by scars or calluses from years spent behind office desks and meaningless reports. These were hands that hadn't failed anyone yet.
Before I could fully process that thought, the sound of footsteps approached, and the door slid open.
My father stood there.
He was younger than I remembered his back straighter, his face less worn by exhaustion. Oil stains marked his old work jacket, and his hair was still thick, with only a hint of gray near the temples. He looked at me with a mild frown that held no anger, only concern.
"You're awake late," he said. "Did you eat yet?"
My throat tightened at the sound of his voice. In my previous life, I couldn't remember the last time I had heard it. I nodded too quickly and answered yes, even though it was a lie.
He smiled anyway. "Good. Get ready for school. Don't be late."
School.
The word struck harder than death itself. I watched him turn away and walk back toward the workshop, his steps steady and familiar, followed by the sound of metal striking concrete. Only after he disappeared did I realize my eyes had grown wet.
I washed my face with cold water and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
The boy looking back at me was too young, too clean, and far removed from the man I had become.
This was the face of a high school student, standing at the very beginning of a life I had already ruined once.
"So this is when it starts," I whispered quietly.
The walk to school felt strangely short. The narrow road, the low houses, and the distant line of the sea glimmering under the morning sun all felt smaller than I remembered. Perhaps it wasn't the world that had shrunk, but me who had grown too heavy in my previous life.
Students passed by in small groups, laughing, complaining, and talking about tests, games, and rumors. Their voices blended into a noise I once thought meaningless. Now, it sounded precious. No one paid attention to me, and for that, I was grateful.
The school gate stood exactly where it always had, its paint peeling and metal bars rusted at the edges. It was a place where nothing important ever seemed to happen, and yet it was here that my life had quietly decided its direction.
Inside, the hallway smelled of dust and chalk.
Lockers slammed shut, shoes echoed against the concrete floor, and a teacher shouted something about discipline.
Everything was familiar, and everything felt wrong, because I already knew what waited ahead average grades, no ambition, and a straight path toward becoming someone who watched everything and changed nothing.
I took my seat by the window, the same one I had always chosen.
Outside, the sea was barely visible between the buildings.
In my previous life, I used to stare at it during long classes, dreaming of nothing in particular.
This time, I looked at it differently. That sea led to ports, to ships, and to the world of logistics I had been born into without ever realizing it.
The bell rang, and class began.
Words flowed past me without meaning, not because I couldn't understand them, but because my thoughts were elsewhere.
For the first time
I wasn't thinking about survival. I was thinking about timing, about questions I had never asked, and about a father who fixed engines without ever mentioning the empire he had walked away from.
I clenched my fist beneath the desk, slowly and quietly.
This time, I wouldn't rush, and I wouldn't pretend to be