William sat on the edge of his bed the next morning, the sunlight from the small apartment window cutting across his face like a sharp line between past and present. The lottery ticket lay on the dresser where he had placed it last night, no longer just a slip of paper but a promise—a promise that he was not powerless, not doomed to repeat his mistakes. The official prize was twenty-five thousand dollars, enough to breathe again, enough to start turning the wheels of his plans.
Sarah was still asleep beside him, her hair spread across the pillow in a messy halo. He watched her chest rise and fall, the gentle rhythm reminding him of everything he had vowed to protect. In his old life he had missed these quiet mornings, drowned in bottles and bad deals, but now each second felt borrowed from heaven. He bent down and kissed her forehead lightly before pulling on a shirt and walking toward the kitchen.
Andrew was already awake, playing on the floor with a set of small toy cars. "Daddy, look!" he exclaimed, pushing two of them into each other with a crash sound effect. William crouched down, ruffled his son's hair, and smiled. "Someday, buddy, we'll buy real cars—fast ones." Andrew's eyes widened. "Like in the movies?" William nodded, a secret spark in his chest. "Exactly like in the movies."
The morning moved quickly. After breakfast, Sarah finally woke up, still groggy. She noticed William staring at the ticket on the dresser. "You really think they'll pay out that much?" she asked, wrapping herself in a robe. William met her gaze, calm but firm. "Yes. Today we start changing everything."
At noon he made his way downtown to the lottery office. The place was busier than he remembered—lines of hopeful people clutching slips, the smell of cheap coffee and sweat filling the air. When it was finally his turn, William handed over the winning ticket. The clerk checked it twice, then typed something into the computer. Her eyes widened. "Congratulations, sir. You've won twenty-five thousand dollars." She printed the confirmation, and soon after a manager came to shake his hand.
Walking out of the office with the official receipt felt surreal. In his past life, he had squandered winnings like these on drinks, parties, and empty promises. But not this time. This time, every cent would be a building block.
On the way home he stopped by the bank, opened a fresh account under his name, and deposited the check. He left a small amount in cash—just enough to cover groceries, bills, and a little treat for Sarah and Andrew. He had already mapped out in his mind where the rest would go: half toward paying down urgent debt, the other half for investments and small flips he knew would rise in value.
Back at the apartment, Sarah was folding laundry when he walked in with a quiet smile. He placed the receipt and bank slip on the table. Her hands froze. "This… this is real?" she whispered. William nodded. "We're safe for now." Tears welled in her eyes, but she quickly brushed them away, not wanting to break. She hugged him tightly. "I don't know how you did this, but thank you. Thank you for giving us a chance."
That evening they went out for a simple dinner, something they hadn't done in months. Nothing fancy—just a small family restaurant near the park, with warm lighting and the smell of garlic bread drifting through the air. Andrew bounced in his chair, excited to eat fries and sip cola like it was a festival. For William, it was more than a meal; it was proof that hope could be reborn even in the middle of despair.
The next day, William began his real work. He left early, heading toward flea markets and pawn shops scattered across New York. His memory guided him—he remembered which comics would skyrocket in price after certain movie adaptations, which discontinued sneakers would be fought over by collectors, which gadgets would become rare.
At one stall, he spotted a pair of limited-edition sneakers covered in dust. The seller shrugged. "Fifty bucks, take it or leave it." William kept his face neutral though his heart was pounding. He knew these would sell for at least a thousand within two years. He handed over the cash without haggling, earning a suspicious look from the man. "You really into old shoes?" the seller muttered. William just smiled. "You could say that."
Later, at a pawn shop, he found a first-generation iPod still sealed in its box. The shopkeeper thought it was junk, offering it for thirty dollars. William almost laughed but kept his composure. "I'll take it." In his mind, he could already see collectors in the future paying hundreds for it.
By evening, his backpack was heavier with finds, and his bank account lighter by a few hundred dollars. But the thrill of building something tangible filled him with energy. This was different from gambling or chance—this was skill, foresight, and determination.
When he came home, Sarah raised an eyebrow at the pile he laid on the table. "Shoes? Old music players? Really, Will?" He sat beside her, took her hand, and explained in detail. "These things will be worth ten times what I paid. Trust me, I know. It looks small now, but this is the beginning." She searched his eyes, and though doubt lingered, she chose to believe him. "Alright. I trust you."
Andrew, meanwhile, climbed onto the couch and grabbed one of the comic books William had bought. "Superheroes! Daddy, can I keep one?" William chuckled. "Not this one, champ. It'll help us buy a house someday." Andrew pouted, but Sarah laughed, ruffling his hair. "Your dad's turning into a businessman."
Over the next week, William sold a few of the sneakers online, doubling his money almost instantly. The comics he kept sealed, knowing their true worth would come later. The iPod was listed at a collector's forum, and within days, offers began rolling in. Every sale was small compared to the empire he dreamed of, but each success whispered in his mind: Step by step, brick by brick.
But shadows were never far. One night, while walking back from a market, William caught sight of two men leaning against a dark alley wall. They weren't strangers. They were Rafi's men. His stomach tightened, but he walked on calmly, pretending not to notice. He knew the storm was coming; Rafi would not stay quiet for long.
That night, lying in bed with Sarah asleep against his shoulder, William stared at the ceiling. The twenty-five thousand dollars had bought him breathing room. The flips had given him momentum. But the real battles—the kind that could tear everything apart—were still ahead. He tightened his arm around Sarah and whispered to the dark, "Not this time. I'll fight to the end."
And so the days of safety and family dinners stretched thin, balanced between hope and the shadow of debts not yet fully erased. For William Stewart, the reborn man of 2010, the journey had only just begun.