I used to be a man named Alden. Middle-aged, balding (though I insisted it was just a "high hairline"), and an accountant at a pretty big company. Not the most glamorous job, but hey... numbers and I got along better than people did. Considering I grew up an orphan, I counted myself lucky to even land it.
My life was spreadsheets by day, spreadsheets by night. Work ate up my hours like an all-you-can-eat buffet. I had a nice house, a car that didn't break down (often), and a savings account that finally looked less like a puddle and more like a kiddie pool. Not bad, right?
Except… I had no one.
No family, no friends, no one to share a pizza with on a Friday night. My coworkers saw me as competition, my neighbors as background extras, and my microwave as my most loyal companion. At least it beeped back. Somewhere between all those balance sheets, I forgot how to actually live.
And then one day... poof. Curtains. The grand finale came not in some heroic blaze of glory, but in a hospital bed. Death by exhaustion. Can you believe it? Not even a dramatic accident. Nope. Out of all things, my own heart filed for resignation first.
As I stared at the beeping heart monitor, I made one desperate, ridiculously cliché wish:
"If I ever get another shot at life, I don't care about money or success. Just give me a big, warm, loving family. The kind that hugs you for no reason and saves you the last piece of cake."
And wouldn't you know it? The universe heard me.
I opened my eyes again… new life, new world. But instead of laughter, hugs, and the smell of a home-cooked meal, I was greeted by cold air, strange walls, and that familiar hollow ache in my chest.
An orphan. Again.
Seriously?
"Why, again?" I muttered, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers.
The universe didn't reply. Figures.
I guess the universe had a sense of humor. Too bad I wasn't in on it.