Afternoon, 1:28 PM
The house smelled warm—spices, polished wood, and a faint trace of something sweet. Tony stepped through the doorway behind his mom, his eyes scanning every detail: the framed pictures on the wall, the neatly lined shoes by the door, the steady tick of a clock somewhere deeper inside.
It should have felt like home.
But to him, it was nothing more than a stranger's house.
In the living room, a man stood waiting. Broad shoulders, kind eyes, dressed in a simple olive T-shirt. His face lit up the moment he saw Tony.
"Son," the man said, his voice thick with emotion. "Welcome home."
Tony froze. For a moment, he almost answered on instinct—like his body remembered something his mind didn't. But the words caught in his throat. He didn't know this man. Not truly. Yet something in his chest stirred, a warmth that wasn't his… a memory that didn't belong to him.
The man walked forward and wrapped him in a gentle embrace. Tony stood stiff at first, then gave in, letting the warmth seep into him. His mom soon returned with a plate of freshly cut watermelon, the slices gleaming under the light.
They ate quietly. Only the crunch of fruit and the ticking clock broke the silence.
Finally, his father leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice was calm, but firm.
"Tony… tell me honestly. What happened to you that day?"
Tony froze, the fruit halfway to his mouth.
"Did you see who did it?" his father pressed, eyes sharp with worry. "Was it an accident—or something else?"
A knot tightened in Tony's chest. His hands trembled, and he set the plate down before he dropped it. He had no answers. Not the ones his father wanted. Not even ones that belonged to him.
"I…" His throat closed.
His mother touched her husband's arm quickly.
"Enough. Don't push him."
"But he needs to—"
"No," she cut him off gently, though her gaze was firm. "Not now. He's just come home. Let him breathe."
The silence that followed was heavy. His father leaned back with a sigh, worry and frustration weighing down his expression.
His mom turned to Tony with a small smile.
"Go to your room, son. Get some rest. We'll talk later."
Tony nodded quickly, relief rushing through him like air after drowning. Without another word, he rose and slipped out, the house suddenly feeling even more suffocating.
He moved slowly until he reached the staircase near the living room. His hand brushed the railing. Could this lead to his room?
He climbed quietly, each step creaking in the silence. At the top, the hallway stretched short and empty—except for a single door on the left, slightly ajar. Waiting.
Tony pushed it open. The room was clean, though the air carried a faint trace of dust. A small desk stood against the right wall, a book resting on top, and a bag leaning in the corner.
On the left stood a tall wooden almirah. Its handles were smooth, worn by years of use. Tony hesitated, then opened it.
"Wow…" he muttered. "These clothes… they're almost like the ones from my previous life. And there's more."
Shirts and pants sat folded neatly on the shelves. Jackets hung in perfect order, like someone had cared for them daily. He brushed his fingers across the fabric, then pulled out a lime T-shirt and navy pants. Changing into them felt strange—familiar, but not his.
As he adjusted the collar, his eyes caught something at the bottom of the almirah. A small stack of books lay tucked into the corner. Curious, Tony bent down and pulled one free. The cover was old, the title barely catching the light.
"The Legend of Horuseus: Whispers of the Lost Legend," he read aloud. The author's name was etched in faded letters: Horneto Millar.
Tony raised an eyebrow, interest sparking. "Looks interesting…"
It told the story of Horuseus, a legendary warrior who once fought a dragon-beast on Volcano Island—a tale still loved even in the year 3025.
Tony turned the page, eyes narrowing.
Horuseus… the warrior who defied fate. Born with nothing, yet chosen by the heavens to command both light and shadow.
Tony's breath caught. The description felt eerily familiar. Too familiar.
It was as if the book… was describing him.