The ceiling was cracked, its paint peeling away like the memories he'd tried so long to forget.
A rusty fan turned above his head with a lazy rhythm — creak... creak... creak — like it was counting down the seconds of his remaining life.
He lay on the old wooden bed, a thin, torn sheet covering his trembling legs. His breath came in small, broken gasps. Every inhale sounded like a confession; every exhale, like a goodbye.
The air smelled of damp walls, medicine, and loneliness.
There was no one beside him.
No one to say his name.
No one to hold his hand.
Outside, the city kept moving — people laughed, engines roared, children cried — but inside this small, dying room, time had stopped.
He looked at the cracked mirror across the wall.
A stranger stared back — hollow eyes, grey beard, wrinkles that carried the weight of fifty wasted years. He tried to smile, but his lips quivered instead.
> "If only I had chosen differently," he whispered.
"If only I hadn't drowned in anger, or followed the wrong people... maybe I wouldn't be here."
His voice was fragile, breaking with the same regret that had built his entire life.
He coughed — a sharp, burning cough that painted red on the white bedsheet. Blood. Warm. Real.
He could feel his heart slowing, his body surrendering.
> "If I had left that place... if I had saved myself from that noise... maybe my life could've been simple,"
he muttered, eyes half closed.
"But now… it's too late. What's done is done. You can't rewrite pain."
He smiled — a sad, broken smile — as the ceiling blurred and shadows danced around him.
The world felt light.
Almost peaceful.
And then, silence.
A long, endless silence.
He thought it was the end.
But as his eyelids shut for the last time, a sudden pressure burst in his chest — sharp, violent, like fire meeting air. Blood flowed again from the corner of his lips, and his fingers twitched.
The fan stopped.
Everything froze.
A faint whisper echoed in his mind — not from outside, but from within.
> "Do you really believe this is the end?"
The voice was soft, unfamiliar, yet filled with something ancient.
He wanted to reply, but words wouldn't come. The light in his vision faded completely.
And in that absolute darkness, he felt something strange.
A pulse.
A heartbeat.
Not dying — but restarting.
Then, a faint sound.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
He opened his eyes.
The air was clean.
The smell of death was gone.
He looked around. The ceiling above him was white, fresh, untouched by time. The bed beneath him was soft. A calendar hung on the wall.
He blinked twice.
The date… it was thirty years ago.
His body froze.
His heartbeat raced.
He touched his face — no wrinkles, no scars.
He pinched his arm. Pain. Real pain.
He wasn't dreaming.
He wasn't dead.
He was back.