I wake up with a headache.
Not the normal kind. Not the didn't-sleep-enough kind.
This one feels… hollow.
Like someone scooped something out of my skull and forgot to put it back.
I sit up and rub my eyes. The room looks normal. Same cracked ceiling. Same dumb poster Mika taped up crooked because "straight is boring."
I grab my phone.
6:38 AM.
Different time.
So time is moving forward now.
Good.
I swing my legs off the bed—and pause.
Something's wrong.
I stare at my desk.
There's a photo frame there. Old. Scratched. I've seen it a thousand times.
Inside it—me, Mika, Mom, Dad.
I recognize everyone.
I know that I love them.
But—
"…What was Dad's name?"
The question slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.
I laugh nervously. "Okay. That's not funny."
I stare harder at the picture.
Mom's smile is soft. Dad's hand rests on my shoulder. I know that hand. I remember how it felt.
Warm. Heavy.
But his name?
Nothing.
My chest tightens.
"No no no," I whisper. "C'mon. Don't do this."
I close my eyes. Try to force it.
Dad's name is—
Blank.
Cold panic creeps up my spine.
I remember his voice. His laugh. The way he used to ruffle my hair even when I told him to stop.
But the name attached to all of that?
Gone.
I slam my fist against the mattress.
"…So that's the price."
A random memory.
That's what disappeared when I rewound the glass.
Not the jump.
Not Mika's death.
Just a name.
For now.
—
Mika bangs on my door ten minutes later.
"Ren! You're gonna be late again!"
"Coming!" I shout back.
I shove the photo frame face-down.
I don't know why.
It just… hurts to look at it.
At breakfast, I watch her like she's about to vanish.
She doesn't notice.
She's too busy complaining about math and shoving toast into her mouth.
"Why are you staring again?" she asks, squinting at me.
"Just checking," I say.
"Checking what?"
"That you're real."
She snorts. "Wow. You definitely need therapy."
Probably.
She leaves for school.
I don't relax until I hear her footsteps fade down the stairs.
—
I skip my morning shift.
Boss yells at me over the phone. I barely hear it.
I'm busy testing something else.
I sit at the table with a notebook.
On the first page, I write:
RULES
I can rewind time.
I remember rewinds.
I lose memories.
I stare at the page, pen hovering.
"How many?" I mutter.
I close my eyes.
Rewind.
Just a few seconds.
The world lurches.
My head throbs.
I open my eyes.
The pen is still hovering.
The notebook is blank.
It worked.
I write again.
TEST 1 COMPLETE
Then I wait.
Nothing feels different.
I check my memories. Everything seems… intact.
No sudden gaps.
No dizziness.
"Okay," I whisper. "So not every rewind takes something big."
That should make me feel better.
It doesn't.
Because that means—
I won't always know what I lost.
—
That evening, Mika comes home late.
Too late.
My heart jumps straight into my throat.
I'm already standing by the door when the handle turns.
She steps in, laughing, talking about some dumb school thing.
I almost rewind on instinct.
I stop myself.
Don't waste it.
"Where were you?" I ask.
She blinks. "Club stuff. I told you."
She did.
I forgot.
That realization hits harder than it should.
"…Sorry," I say.
She shrugs and heads to her room.
I sit down on the couch, hands shaking.
That's when my phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number:You're testing it.
I freeze.
Me: Who are you?
Seconds pass.
Then—
Unknown Number:Someone who's done this longer than you.
My pulse spikes.
Me: You know about the memories?
Three dots.
Pause.
Unknown Number:Yeah.
I swallow.
Me: How much do I lose?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Unknown Number:Enough to break you.
My grip tightens around the phone.
Me: Why warn me?
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Unknown Number:Because you're not supposed to exist.
The message sends.
Then the number disappears.
Like it was never there.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark.
My reflection stares back.
"…Not supposed to exist," I repeat.
I think of the dream.
My parents.
You still have time.
My hands curl into fists.
"Then I'll use it," I whisper. "No matter what it costs."
Even if one day—
I forget why I'm fighting at all.