When he woke up that morning, sweaty and breathing heavily, the first thing he did was bring his hands to his chest, to the area where his solar plexus was supposed to be pierced... but there was nothing beyond that. He got up, tangled in the sheets and falling face first onto the floor, taking several things with him that fell on his back and the back of his neck. A hospital bed? No. It wasn't possible.

He got up, this time for real, realizing that everything around him was... definitely not his house or a hospital, although the photograph of his family on the nightstand made him pinch his face. He was supposed to be, theoretically, dead. But there he was, in a room that was apparently his, with a calendar on the wall that told him that it had been a little over a hundred years since he died.

His only consolation was you, the person who entered his house looking for him after hours of not seeing him at the university, according to you, you asked him why he missed work, finding him on the living room floor with a knife in his hand, but when he saw him, he let go and hugged you to make sure he hadn't gone crazy.