Chapter 1 The Past 1
Rick Lane moved through his grand, yet hollow, mansion, each step echoing the solitude that had become his constant companion. The dinner party with his shareholders had been an exercise in performative happiness, a mask he wore expertly, but one that crumbled the moment he closed the heavy oak doors of his study behind him. The clink of ice in his glass, the hushed murmur of the city outside—these were the only sounds in a house built for a family, now occupied by a man who had lost his most precious part.
He found himself, as he often did, in the opulent master bedroom, not for rest, but for a ritual of remembrance. He sat on the edge of the vast, emperor-sized bed, its crisp sheets and plush pillows a stark contrast to the emptiness in his chest. His gaze, weary and heavy with unspoken grief, drifted to the bedside table. There, bathed in the soft glow of a dimmed lamp, sat a simple silver frame.
It was a picture from another lifetime, another Rick. A young man, his face alight with a hopeful, almost boyish grin, stood beside a fair-skinned beauty, her dark hair cascading around a face that held both gentle sweetness and a spark of defiant intelligence. Her eyes, even in the faded photograph, shimmered with a joy that matched his own. Their hands were intertwined, a silent testament to a future they believed would be filled with endless possibilities. Their wedding day. Jenny Kane, his late wife.
A familiar ache constricted Rick's heart, a raw, burning regret that had festered for years. He'd lost her. He'd lost everything that truly mattered. And the most agonizing part was the belated realization, the crushing weight of understanding her value only after she was gone. He remembered that day vividly, the promises he'd made, the dreams they'd spun.
The Lane family had always been comfortable, certainly above average in the Kingdom of Poh, in City Bee. Not obscenely rich, but never wanting for basic necessities. Rick, with his youthful confidence, had believed his inherent talents, his "jack-of-all-trades" adaptability, would guarantee an easy life. He'd underestimated the harsh realities of a burgeoning City Bee, then a mere town, struggling to find its economic footing. Good jobs were scarce, and even his best efforts yielded little more than a modest income.
Then their son, had been born, a tiny bundle of innocent demands that shattered Rick's naive notions. Love, he quickly learned, couldn't pay the bills. It couldn't put food on the table or provide a future. It was Jenny, resourceful and resilient, who had navigated those lean years with grace and an unwavering determination. With the quiet, steady support of Rick's parents, she'd found ways to stretch every coin, to make their humble home a haven of warmth and comfort.
It was Jenny, too, who had seen the opportunity when her sister first floated the idea of a small, family-run restaurant. Rick had been skeptical, bogged down by his own struggles to climb the corporate ladder, still chasing that elusive "decent job." But Jenny had poured her heart and soul into it, working alongside her elder sister, transforming a small, dusty storefront into a bustling eatery. It was a success, a testament to her vision and tireless effort. While Rick eventually secured a better-paying position, it was still not enough to lift them beyond comfortable survival into true prosperity. Jenny, driven by a deep love for their family, continued to work harder, her dreams intertwining with the restaurant's growth, becoming its very backbone.
He remembered her in her early forties, vibrant and strong, but increasingly tired. The restaurant business, by then a burgeoning success, demanded every ounce of her energy. Late nights, early mornings, the constant churn of customers, suppliers, and staff. One evening, after an especially gruelling shift, Jenny had driven home, her old, reliable car—a gift from Rick's parents years ago—trudging through the city streets. She was exhausted, her mind already drifting to the next day's tasks, to her child's school play, to Rick's quiet worries about expansion. Then, without warning, a blinding flash of headlights, the screech of tires, and a deafening crash as a truck, appearing from nowhere, had veered wildly into her path.
The memory was a sharp, physical pain, a fresh wound tearing open in his chest. He clutched the picture frame tighter, the cool metal pressing against his skin. His eyes, now blurred with unshed tears, scanned Jenny's smiling face in the photograph. He wished, with every fibre of his being, he could go back. Go back and warn her. Go back and save her. Go back and tell her how much he loved her, how truly indispensable she was.
The world seemed to spin, the lamplight blurring into a halo around the photograph. The contours of his luxurious room softened, then melted away. A peculiar lightness enveloped him, a sensation not unlike falling, yet without the fear.
"What… What is happening?" he muttered in his drunken stupor.
He could not put his mind into it as everything began to blur. He suddenly cannot feel his hand, his body becoming light.
It was a descent into an unfamiliar abyss, a unique phenomenon he is feeling for the first time in his life.
"Help! Help me!" He tried to cry out but his voice became hoarse.
"Am I having a heart attack?" he thought as he tried to stand up.
Suddenly, a thought appears in his mind. If he is going to die today, then maybe… just maybe, he could finally see her again. The anticipation, the worry, the excitement began to fill his heart.
His grip on the picture tightened, his body growing heavier, then lighter still, until he felt nothing but the soft, rhythmic hum of a distant murmur. He drifted into the swirling darkness, Jenny's youthful smile burned into his mind, the regret a consuming fire in his soul. He yearned for her, for a chance to rewrite their story.
Then, with an abrupt jolt, the darkness vanished. A harsh, fluorescent light pierced his eyelids, and the murmur resolved into a cacophony of youthful voices. A different kind of ache, a stiffness in his neck from an unfamiliar posture, replaced the emotional pain. He blinked, slowly, confusedly, then opened his eyes.
He wasn't in his opulent master bedroom. He wasn't in his silent mansion. The air, thick with the scent of old chalk dust, stale coffee, and something vaguely metallic from the worn wooden desks, filled his nostrils. He was slumped forward, his head pillowed on his folded arms, on a desk scarred with generations of student graffiti. His clothes felt different—rougher, simpler. He looked down at his hands; they were smoother, unlined by years of toil and worry. They were young hands.
Around him, a symphony of adolescent chatter: books rustling, chairs scraping, muffled laughter, the sharp click of a fountain pen. He recognized the drone of the air conditioning, a particular squeak from the third row's wooden chair. He knew this place. Every fibre of his being screamed recognition.
This was Classroom 302. His old university classroom.
He straightened up too quickly, his heart thudding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His gaze darted around the room. The beige walls, stained and peeling in places, the blackboard covered in half-erased equations from the previous class, the large, grimy window overlooking the campus quad. It was all there, exactly as he remembered it, a ghost from decades past.
"Another late night, Rick?" a voice to his left chuckled.
Rick spun his head, his eyes widening. Sitting next to him, a mischievous glint in his eyes, was a young man with a mop of unruly brown hair and a perpetually amused smirk. It was Arthur Simmons, his best friend from university, now a respected if slightly eccentric professor of history, a man Rick hadn't seen in years. Arthur was… young. So young, without the worry lines and the slight paunch Rick associated with him.
"Arthur?" Rick's voice came out raspy, thin, utterly unfamiliar. He cleared his throat, trying to regain control. "Yeah, yeah, just… cramming for Professor Albright's exam. Must have dozed off." He forced a casual shrug, but his mind raced. This was it. This was the dream. It felt impossibly real.
Arthur laughed. "Cramming? You? Since when do you cram, Lane? You're the king of winging it." He nudged Rick's arm. "Hey, have you seen Jenny? She said she'd meet me here before class. We need to go over the notes for the political science midterm."
Rick's breath hitched. Jenny. She was here. Now. He turned his head slowly towards the classroom door, a wave of anticipation and dread washing over him. This was it, his chance.
Just then, the door swung open, and she walked in.