March 5, 1985 — London, England
The morning sun filtered through the tall sash windows of a quiet, Victorian-style house in one of London's more charming neighborhoods. Outside, the city was beginning to stir with the frantic energy of the mid-eighties—the distant hum of traffic and the faint whistles of the underground—but inside the Hunter residence, time seemed to slow to a comfortable crawl.
In the center of the sun-drenched living room, curled up in a leather armchair that was far too large for him, sat a boy who had just turned five years old. To a passerby, he looked like any other child: small, with a mop of dark hair and a focused expression. However, the book resting on his knees would have given anyone pause. It wasn't a picture book or a simple fairy tale; it was a dense historical text that most university students would have found tedious.
This was Timothy Hunter, born on March 5, 1980. To his neighbors, he was a prodigy. To his parents, he was their "little professor." But to Timothy himself, he was a man living a second life.
In his previous existence, Tim had been an orphan of the 21st century. He had spent sixteen years navigating the cold, impersonal hallways of a budget orphanage, never knowing the warmth of a mother's touch or a father's pride. He had poured his entire soul into his studies, driven by a desperate, lonely hunger to build a future where he finally belonged. That dream had ended abruptly on a rain-slicked pavement, the screech of tires and the blinding flash of headlights being the last things he remembered.
Then, there was light again—not the harsh light of a hospital, but the soft glow of a nursery.
The universe, in its infinite irony, had plucked him from a life of solitude and dropped him into the 1980s, gifted with the one thing he had always craved: a family. Sure, the lack of high-speed internet and the "backwards" technology of 1985 were minor annoyances, but they were a small price to pay for the love that now surrounded him.
As Tim turned a page, a pair of slender arms reached over the back of the chair and pulled him into a sudden, warm embrace. He didn't startle; the scent of lavender and vanilla was a familiar comfort that grounded him.
"Caught you again, my little scholar," a melodic voice whispered against his hair.
Tim closed his book with a soft thump and tilted his head back, looking up at the woman holding him. Mary Hunter was radiant, her face framed by a cascade of black curly hair that mirrored his own. Her eyes, the same deep hue as Tim's, sparkled with an affection that still, after five years, made his heart ache with gratitude.
"Hey, Mom," Tim said, his voice small but filled with genuine warmth. He twisted around to return the hug, burying his face in her shoulder for a moment.
"Hello to you too, sweetie," Mary cooed, squeezing him tight before finally letting go. She leaned over the chair, her gaze falling on the heavy tome in his lap. An awkward, slightly amused smile tugged at her lips. "History of the Industrial Revolution? Honestly, Tim, aren't you a little young for this kind of light reading?"
She didn't wait for an answer, instead reaching out to ruffle his hair and playfully pinch his cheeks. She had a particular weakness for his cheeks, often claiming they were the softest things in London.
Tim didn't protest. To his parents, he played the part of the eccentric, brilliant child, but in moments like this, he let himself just be a child. He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly and offered her a wide, toothy grin.
"I just like the pictures, Mom," he joked, knowing full well the book had almost no illustrations.
Mary laughed, the sound bright and clear. "Liar. You're going to have a PhD before you hit puberty at this rate." She gave his cheek one last affectionate squeeze before straightening up. "By the way, your dad will be home any minute. Why don't you head upstairs and freshen up? We have a big evening ahead of us."
"Yes, ma'am!" Tim replied with a mock-solemn salute. He hopped down from the chair and scurried toward the stairs, his small feet thumping rhythmically on the wooden floor.
Mary watched him go, her expression softening into one of pure maternal pride. She still remembered the day he was born—the tiny, screaming bundle that had changed her world forever. He was a strange child, yes, but he was hers, and she wouldn't change a single thing about him.
Just as Tim disappeared around the corner of the landing, the sound of a key turning in the front door echoed through the hallway. Mary smoothed her skirt and hurried to the foyer.
The door swung open to reveal William Hunter. He was a handsome man with a sharp jawline and jet-black hair that was currently windblown from the London breeze. His brown eyes lit up the moment he saw his wife.
"I'm home!" William announced, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind him.
Mary met him halfway, and they shared a brief, loving hug. As they pulled apart, she noticed the brightly colored box he was carrying with extreme care.
"Is that the one he asked for?" she whispered, nodding toward the box.
William grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. "The best chocolate cake in the city for the best five-year-old in the world. Where is the birthday boy?"
"Upstairs, supposedly 'freshening up,'" Mary said with a wink. "But knowing him, he's probably just started another book."
William chuckled, setting the cake down on the hallway table. "Well, he better put it down fast. A fifth birthday only happens once, and I intend to make sure he remembers this one."
Upstairs, Timothy sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the muffled sounds of his parents laughing below. He looked at his small hands, then out the window at the London skyline. In his first life, he had been a ghost, passing through the world unnoticed. In this life, he was Timothy Hunter—loved, wanted, and finally home.
He took a deep breath, a small, content smile playing on his lips, and headed back downstairs to join his family.