Lysander woke with a jolt, his heart hammering against his ribs. The sensation of falling, of being pulled through space and time, still lingered in his body. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the disorientation that clouded his mind. Gone was the relentless rain, the empty street, the grief that had crushed his chest like a vise. Instead, sunlight streamed through thin curtains that swayed gently in the morning breeze.
For several seconds, he remained frozen, unable to process the transformation of his surroundings. The room was small, nothing like the spacious penthouse bedroom he had shared with Eliza in Boston. The walls were painted a soft blue, adorned with faded posters of basketball players and what appeared to be cartoon characters he hadn't thought about in decades.
His hands flew to his face, and he gasped at what he felt—smooth skin, no stubble, no lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked down at his body, so much smaller than it should be, clad in worn cotton pajamas decorated with superhero logos. Trembling, he raised his hands before his eyes, examining them with growing astonishment. Gone were the manicured nails, the calluses from his occasional weekend tennis matches, the platinum wedding band that had adorned his left ring finger for fifteen years.
These were a child's hands.
A wave of dizziness washed over him, and Lysander gripped the edge of the narrow bed to steady himself. The stranger's words echoed in his mind: "If you could turn everything back, would you do so?"
He had said yes, but this... this was beyond anything he could have imagined.
"Lysander! child, get up now or you'll be late for school!"
The voice that floated up from downstairs froze him completely. It was a voice he had not heard in three years—a voice he had convinced himself he was forgetting, despite listening to old voicemails on nights when the guilt became too much to bear.
His mother.
"Mom?" he whispered, the word catching in his throat.
"Lysander! Don't make me come up there!"
There was no mistaking the mixture of affection and exasperation in her tone. Isabel Reyes-Everett had always managed that balance—stern enough to command respect, warm enough that her children never doubted her love.
Lysander stumbled out of bed, his movements awkward as he tried to adjust to this smaller body. He caught sight of his reflection in a small mirror hanging on the back of his door and nearly collapsed. Staring back at him was his ten-year-old self—the same high cheekbones that hinted at his Filipino heritage from his mother's side, the same slightly too-large eyes that he had inherited from his father, Robert Everett. His father had been a Peace Corps volunteer who had fallen in love with both the Philippines and the beautiful schoolteacher who would become his wife. Their relationship had raised eyebrows in both their families, but they had built a life together despite the cultural differences.
Lysander touched his reflection with trembling fingers. His mind—the mind of a thirty-eight-year-old man who had built a financial empire, who had loved and lost, who had stood rain-soaked in the depths of despair just moments ago (or was it decades from now?)—was trapped in the body of his childhood self.
"I'm coming, Mom!" he called out, wincing at the high pitch of his voice.
He quickly dressed in the school uniform hanging on his closet door—navy blue shorts, a white short-sleeved shirt with the school emblem, and black shoes that felt stiff and new. Each movement was mechanical, guided by muscle memory from a life he had long since outgrown.
As he made his way down the narrow staircase of the modest two-story house, the scent of garlic fried rice and eggs enveloped him, accompanied by the faint aroma of brewing coffee. These were the smells of his childhood, the breakfast his mother had prepared nearly every morning before he and his siblings left for school. How many times in his adult life had he found himself in upscale restaurants, sampling cuisine from around the world, yet thinking of this simple breakfast with a pang of nostalgia?
When he entered the kitchen and saw her, Lysander froze in the doorway. Isabel stood at the stove, her back to him, humming softly as she flipped strips of tocino in a well-used pan. Her dark hair was gathered in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She wore a simple house dress, her slender frame moving with the easy grace he remembered.
In his previous life—his first life—she had died of a sudden heart attack at fifty-seven. He had been in Tokyo, closing a major acquisition deal. By the time Marcus had reached him, the funeral arrangements were already underway. Lysander had flown home immediately, but the damage had been done. He had missed his chance to say goodbye, just as he would later miss his chance with Eliza.
"Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to eat your breakfast?" his mother asked without turning around, that uncanny maternal sixth sense alerting her to his presence.
When she finally looked at him, her smile faltered slightly. "Anak, are you feeling alright? You look pale."
Lysander couldn't speak. His throat constricted with emotion as he stared at her youthful face—no gray in her hair, no lines around her eyes yet. In this timeline, she was only in her mid-thirties, vibrant and healthy and alive.
Before he could stop himself, he crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face against her side. She smelled of jasmine soap and cooking oil and the faint trace of the perfume his father brought her whenever he returned from business trips abroad.
"Lysander!" she exclaimed, surprised by the sudden display of affection from her usually independent son. She set down her spatula and placed a cool hand on his forehead. "Do you have a fever? Should I call your teacher and tell her you're not coming today?"
He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak yet. How could he explain? This woman—this beloved mother he had failed—was giving him a second chance he didn't deserve.
"I'm fine," he finally managed, reluctantly pulling away. "Just had a strange dream."
Isabel studied his face for a moment longer, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with his explanation. "Well, sit down and eat. Marcus and Sophia already left with your father. He's dropping them at the high school before heading to his office."
Lysander slid into his usual seat at the small kitchen table, taking in details he had forgotten over the years—the chipped blue mug his mother always used for her coffee, the framed cross-stitch hanging on the wall with the phrase "Bless this Home" in elaborate lettering, the radio quietly playing morning news in a mixture of English and Tagalog.
As he mechanically ate spoonfuls of garlic rice topped with a perfectly fried egg, his mind raced to process this impossible situation. He was back in the Philippines, in his childhood home, living with his family as if the last twenty-eight years had never happened. But they had happened—at least for him. He remembered everything: college in the United States on a scholarship, meeting Eliza, building his company, the devastation of loss.
Eliza.
The thought of her sent a jolt through his system. In this timeline, she would be around ten years old as well, living with her parents in Connecticut. Their paths wouldn't cross for another eight years, when they would both attend Columbia University—he on a business scholarship, she because her father was an alumnus who had insisted his daughter receive an Ivy League education despite her preference for smaller arts colleges.
If he was truly back in time with his adult consciousness intact, could he find her sooner? Should he? What would be the implications of changing their meeting, their relationship? Would she even become the Eliza he had fallen in love with if her life took a different path?
"Lysander, your breakfast is getting cold," his mother chided gently, breaking into his thoughts. "And you'll be late if you don't hurry."
He nodded, forcing himself to focus on the present moment. "Sorry, Mom. I was just thinking."
"Thinking very hard, from the look on your face," she replied, her tone softening. "Is everything alright at school? No problems with your classmates or teachers?"
The concern in her voice made his chest ache. How had he forgotten this—her intuitive understanding, her genuine interest in the details of his day? In his previous life, as he grew older and more focused on his ambitions, he had gradually reduced their conversations to brief updates and occasional visits. He had rationalized it as the natural evolution of the parent-child relationship, but now he recognized it for what it was: neglect disguised as independence.
"Everything's fine at school," he assured her, managing a smile. "I was just... making plans."
It wasn't a lie. His mind was already mapping out possibilities, calculating probabilities. If he had truly been given this extraordinary second chance, he needed to use it wisely. The mysterious stranger had warned him that changing the past carried its own price, that some mistakes even time could not forgive twice.
He would need to be careful, strategic—qualities that had served him well in business but that he had failed to apply to his personal relationships. This time would be different. This time, he would prioritize what truly mattered.
His mother glanced at the clock on the wall and gasped. "Oh! Look at the time. Hurry now, or you'll miss the school bus."
She quickly packed his lunch into a plastic container and handed it to him along with his backpack. As he took them from her, their fingers brushed, and Lysander felt a surge of emotion so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees. This was real. She was real.
"Thanks, Mom," he said, infusing the simple words with all the love and gratitude he couldn't express.
Something in his tone must have reached her, because she paused and cupped his cheek in her palm. "You're welcome, anak. Have a good day at school."
He nodded, committing her face to memory—the way her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when she smiled, the small beauty mark just below her left eyebrow, the gentle curve of her lips. Details he had forgotten, now restored to him like precious gifts.
The walk to the bus stop was disorienting. The neighborhood was both familiar and strange—smaller than he remembered, yet filled with details his adult mind had discarded over the years. The massive acacia tree at the corner where he and Marcus used to climb despite their mother's warnings. The small sari-sari store where they would spend their allowance on candies and small toys. The house with the fierce dog that always barked at passing children.
As he boarded the school bus and found an empty seat by the window, Lysander's thoughts returned to the enormity of what had happened. Somehow, he had been granted a do-over, a chance to rewrite the story of his life. But where would he begin? How would he balance the knowledge of his future with the limitations of his present?
And most pressingly, how would he find his way back to Eliza—the woman who, in this timeline, was a child on the other side of the world, with no knowledge of him or the life they would share?
The bus lurched forward, carrying him toward his elementary school, and Lysander gazed out at the passing scenes of his childhood. The challenge ahead was monumental, but for the first time since receiving that devastating text in his previous life, he felt something other than despair.
He felt hope.
As the familiar landscape of his youth rolled by, Lysander began to formulate a plan. He was no longer simply Lysander Everett, the ambitious ten-year-old boy with dreams of financial success. He was also Lysander Everett, the man who had achieved those dreams at the cost of what truly mattered. With the knowledge of both triumphs and failures, he now had the chance to chart a different course.
He would find his way back to Eliza. He would be present for his family. He would redefine success on his own terms. And this time, he would not let the pursuit of fortune steal the treasures of love and connection.
The school building came into view, and Lysander took a deep breath. His new beginning had arrived, unexpected and miraculous. What he did with it would determine whether this gift of time would become a blessing or another source of regret.
As he stepped off the bus, the world around him seemed to blur momentarily. When his vision cleared, he found himself seated at his desk in a classroom full of children, the teacher's voice fading in as if someone had slowly turned up the volume on a radio.
"...and so, class, today we will continue our lesson on world geography," the teacher was saying as she pointed to a large map at the front of the room. "Can anyone tell me where the United States is located?"
Lysander's gaze fixed on the map, on the vast distance between the Philippines and the small state of Connecticut where, someday, he would need to find his way. The challenge seemed almost insurmountable, but he was not the same man who had stood broken in the rain.
This time, he would get it right.