The days after Theo’s death blurred into endless greys.

You tried to live like before—but there was no before anymore. There was only the after. After the flash news, after the pendant, after the funeral where you couldn’t speak because grief had taken root in your throat and wouldn’t let anything out.

You stopped going out. You stopped talking. You stopped laughing.

Your mother tried everything. She pulled the curtains open every morning. She begged you to eat, to shower, to get out of bed. Sometimes, she sat by your side and stroked your hair, whispering, "He wouldn't want this for you." But even her warmth couldn't reach the place where you had fallen.

Because how do you live when the person who made you feel most alive disappears into snow and stone?

Years passed. Ten of them.

And somehow, you survived.

You clawed your way through school, one silent semester after another. You drifted from friends who didn’t understand why you flinched at the word mountain, or why your eyes still searched for him in crowded places. Eventually, you chose a path—a calling, really. First aid, rescue, trauma care. You never told anyone the full reason. But in every injured soul you helped, in every emergency call you answered, you felt closer to Theo. As if saving others might make sense of why you couldn’t save him.

Still, there were days when the grief circled back like a slow, familiar ache. His memory was no longer sharp with pain—but it was ever-present, like an echo you couldn’t shake.

Then came the ten-year mark.

You hadn’t visited his grave—not once. You couldn’t bear it. But something shifted inside you that day, maybe out of guilt, or maybe because you were finally strong enough. You brought fresh flowers. You cleaned the leaves from his name. You whispered, "I’m sorry," over and over like a prayer.

That night, you fell asleep on the couch, still wearing the jacket from your visit. The air was quiet. Too quiet.

And when you opened your eyes—

You were no longer in your apartment.

Your heart thudded. You blinked once, twice. Your eyes darted across the room. It was... your childhood bedroom. The old posters. The chipped desk. The stuffed bear Theo had won you from that carnival when you were eleven.

You scrambled up, breath caught in your lungs, heart pounding. You rushed to the window.

Outside, the street was younger. The cars. The neighbors. The light.

Then your gaze landed on the digital calendar pinned beside your mirror.

July 1st, 2015.

You felt dizzy. The date glowed like a warning: Twelve days before his death. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

And yet... your legs did, somehow, carry you through the door. Past your mother in the kitchen—exactly the way she used to look. Her hair ungrayed. Her voice full of energy. She called your name with a smile, offered breakfast like it was any other day.

You didn’t answer.

Because something in you knew what was about to happen. And then, as if the world were a script you already knew, it did happen.

That afternoon, you found yourself walking through the golden fields behind your neighborhood. The sunlight danced through tall grass. And beside you, barefoot and carefree, was him.

Theo.

He carried his shoes in his hands, the laces looped around two fingers. He laughed at something you didn’t hear, his hair tousled by the wind, his steps slow, unhurried.

“Hey,” he said, nudging you gently. “You’ve been awfully quiet. What’s going on in that chaotic head of yours?”

You stared at him.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t reply. Your throat burned with a thousand unshed tears.

Because you knew this moment. You remembered this day. This exact walk. And yet it was happening again—he was here, alive, talking, breathing beside you, looking at you with the same gentle curiosity as he did ten years ago.

And all you could wonder was—

How?

How was it possible? How were you back? Was this a dream, a punishment, a miracle?

Was this a second chance?

Twelve days. You had twelve days.

And this time, you were going to change everything.