Chapter 5 A plan 1
The frigid tendrils of the mansion's air, a constant companion in his solitary existence, seemed to coalesce around Rick Lane as he jolted awake. His breath hitched, a faint mist in the cool morning. The dream, if it was merely that, clung to him with the tenacity of a forgotten scent. He reached out, his fingers tracing the smooth, cool glass of the picture frame on his hand. Jenny. Her smile, radiant and eternal, mocked the emptiness of the room. Was it all a figment, a cruel trick of a dying mind? He had been so certain of her presence, of their conversation, of the impossible gift of a second chance. The conversation in the classroom, the desperation in his voice, her bewildered expression – it felt too real, too visceral to simply dissipate with the dawn.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the plush carpet doing little to cushion the sudden weight of reality. His usual morning routine, once a comforting ritual, now felt like a charade. The scent of fresh coffee did not invigorate; the crisp lines of his tailored suit offered no solace. At the company, the gleaming glass and steel of the Lane Group tower, a testament to his life's singular focus, seemed less imposing, almost irrelevant. He sat through meetings, his gaze fixed but unfocused, nodding at quarterly reports and market analyses that once consumed his every thought. He signed documents, his signature flowing effortlessly, yet his mind was miles away, trapped in a paradox of time and memory.
The dream. The word felt inadequate. It was more than a dream; it was a memory, a phantom limb of a life he might have had, or perhaps, now could have. He leaned back in his executive chair, the leather creaking softly in protest. The panorama of City Bee, sprawling and vibrant beneath his window, seemed to blur as his eyes scanned his computer screen. If it was just a dream, then let it be forgotten. But if it held even a sliver of truth, then he had to plan. He had to think. He had to act.
His past self had been hopelessly outmatched. Young, naive, and crucially, penniless. Words, no matter how earnest, were ephemeral things. They could not stem the tide of financial hardship, the relentless erosion of hope that had eventually claimed Jenny. In the dream, he had tried to talk, to reason, to implore. It was the desperate plea of a man with nothing but a future's hindsight. But that wasn't enough. He knew, with the cold certainty of regret, that what he had done in that 'dream' was mere wishful thinking. Words alone could not change anything. He needed power, and in this world, power flowed from capital.
He browsed, his fingers flying across the keyboard, searching for leverage, for an immediate infusion of funds into his past self's meager existence. The fastest, most direct, and riskiest path?
The lottery. The Kingdom of Poh, like all nations, had its intricate web of lotteries: the colossal 6-digit basic lottery, the still substantial 5-digit, and the more manageable, yet still lucrative, 4-digit and 3-digit games. The larger lotteries came with a perilous spotlight, drawing unwanted attention, sometimes even danger. No, his objective was steady, safe, and quick. The 4-digit and 3-digit games. He began to meticulously gather information, sifting through historical data of past wins, cross-referencing patterns, and focusing on the smaller, more predictable draws. The numbers began to form constellations in his mind, a mosaic of possibilities.
That night, he found himself home earlier than usual, the mansion's silence more pronounced in the encroaching twilight. He had a singular mission: to sleep before 7 PM. He held the crumpled paper, the lottery numbers a jumble of hope and fear, and moved to place it in the drawer of the side table. As his hand drew close, a sharp, almost imperceptible pain shot through his finger. The silver frame of Jenny's picture, its edge deceptively keen, had sliced him. A single, crimson droplet welled up, then dripped, slow and deliberate, onto the paper.
His vision swam, the room distorting, twisting into a familiar, nauseating vortex. He couldn't fight it this time. The sensation of falling, of being stretched across dimensions, consumed him. His body slumped onto the plush mattress, the paper still clutched in his hand, as the present dissolved into the past.
The smell of old textbooks and chalk dust hit him first, followed by the muffled murmur of a bustling university classroom. The familiar creak of the wooden chairs, the distant clang of a bell – he was back. 1997. He opened his eyes, the fluorescent lights of the lecture hall casting a pale glow on the worn desks. He was sitting at his usual spot, third row, near the window. And in his hand, miraculously, was the paper. His heart hammered against his ribs. He quickly unfolded it, his fingers trembling. The numbers, stark and undeniable, were there. The lottery numbers.
He now knew that this was not just any dream. It is something miraculous. A chance. A redemption.
"Rick? Are you alright?"
Jenny. Her voice, like a chime from a forgotten melody, cut through the fog of his astonishment. She was looking at him, her brow furrowed with concern, a hint of confusion in her eyes. Her black hair, pulled back into a messy bun, framed a face that was still so young, so full of an optimism he had almost forgotten.
"Jenny," he breathed, the name a prayer. He stared at her, then at the paper, then back at her. The reality of his situation crashed over him. He wasn't really dreaming. Not this time.
"You're acting… even weirder than yesterday," she said, a small, tentative smile playing on her lips. "After you went on about the bakery and 'future investments' – which, by the way, was actually pretty interesting, even if it came out of nowhere – you just… snapped back. Like the old Rick. The King of Winging it." She chuckled, a soft, pleasant sound. "It was like two different people. Are you feeling okay?"
Rick's mind reeled. Two different people. He somewhat understood but also felt confused. Does this mean that when he returned to his original time, his younger self, the carefree, somewhat apathetic Rick, took over. This was a critical piece of information. It meant he had limited windows. He had to be efficient. And he had to account for his other self's actions.
"Jenny, listen," he began, his voice rougher than he intended, drawing another curious glance from her. "About yesterday… I know it was… strange. Look, I can't explain it fully right now, but it's important. Everything I said about the bakery, about planning for the future… It's real. And I need to do something important. Right now."
He glanced at his watch. The lottery drawing is later today. He couldn't waste time.
"What do you mean, 'real'?" she asked, her smile fading into a look of genuine bewilderment. "Rick, you're usually so… laid back. This is all very unlike you. You… you're that other person again. I'm worried."
"I know," he said, standing abruptly, almost knocking over his chair. "Believe me, I know. Just… trust me. For now. I'll explain later. I promise." He looked at the paper in his hand, then back at her, his resolve hardening. "I need to go. Now."
"Go where? The lecture's about to start!" she exclaimed, her voice a hushed whisper, mindful of the few other students trickling in.
"Something far more important," he muttered, already striding towards the door. "Wish me luck, Jen. This could change everything."
He didn't wait for her reply, half-running down the crowded university hallway, dodging students and professors. His mind was a whirlwind of calculations and possibilities. The lottery outlet. He remembered one just a few blocks from the university, near the old library. He navigated the familiar streets of City Bee, a city he had seen and helped build and shape to what it has become in his later life, yet now saw through the eyes of his younger self. The vibrant market stalls, the aroma of street food, the incessant honking of taxis – it was all a stark reminder of the past he was trying to alter.
He reached the lottery outlet, a small, unassuming shop tucked between a laundromat and a bustling noodle bar. A faded sign with the Kingdom of Poh's lottery logo hung above the door, its colors bleached by years of sun. He pushed open the door, the small bell above it jingling merrily, an ironic contrast to the grim determination etched on his face.
The interior was small, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of old paper and stale coffee. Behind the counter, a plump, bespectacled man with a meticulously parted haircut was meticulously stacking scratch cards. His name, Rick vaguely recalled from his youthful, fleeting visits, was Mr. Pinter. He looked up, his expression neutral.
"Can I help you, son?" Mr. Pinter asked, his voice gravelly, but not unkind.
Rick approached the counter, the crumpled paper clutched tightly in his hand. He smoothed it out, revealing the neat columns of numbers. "Yes, Mr. Pinter. I'd like to buy some lottery tickets. Three-digit games." He takes paper cash and pushes it across the counter.
Mr. Pinter picked up the money, his eyes scanning it, and then noticed another paper with numbers in Rick's hand. A faint smile touched his lips. "Ah, a young man with a system, eh? Good for you. Always nice to see a new face trying their luck." He glanced up at Rick, his smile faltering slightly. His gaze lingered on Rick's face, then drifted down to his school ID. A flash of realization, then a polite but firm shake of his head.
"I'm sorry, son," Mr. Pinter said, his voice now devoid of its earlier warmth. "I can't sell these to you."