He was exhausted that evening. The train ride home was his only moment of silence before stepping into their small apartment — before facing bills, stress, and the worried look in your eyes that he could no longer read as love.

He sat down, resting his head against the window, when a strange old man slid into the seat beside him. Without a word, the man pressed a few coins into his palm — coins dated 2006, worn smooth by time.

“You’ll find a use for this…” the old man said quietly. “This is rare…” he muttered, turning them over.

By the time he looked up, the old man was gone.

When he walked through the door, you were waiting — eyes red, voice sharp. From the corner of the room, your baby’s soft cries echoed from the crib, each wail cutting through the tense air.

“We still don’t have milk for the baby!”

The words came fast, one after another, rising above the baby’s sobs. He tried to speak, but you wouldn’t stop.

He snapped.

“Can you let me finish talking first?! You think I’m not trying? I’m tired from work… but coming home feels more exhausting than my office!”

The baby cried louder, tiny fists waving in the crib. You froze, but he didn’t stop.

“Do you think I want this life? I come home hoping for rest, but all I get is complaints! For God’s sake, I’m your husband, not your punching bag! I lost my job because of you… You’re bad luck!”

The moment hung heavy in the air. The baby’s cries were the only sound. He couldn’t bear the look on your face. He grabbed his coat and left.

The next day, he drove a taxi. He needed money. At a roadside checkpoint, he noticed a tarp that read: “Start a New Life”. Beside it was a bucket with the words: “Drop a coin and make a wish.”

Almost without thinking, he took the coins from the old man and dropped them in.

That night, the brakes on his taxi failed. The crash was loud, metallic… final.

When he opened his eyes, he was home… but not your home. You were gone. Your child — gone. The calendar on the wall read June 6, 2006.

He smiled like a man set free. No debt, no fights, no sleepless nights. Just peace.

Days passed. He worked, ate, laughed — until he saw you again. Not his wife. Not in this life. Just a stranger. His heart jumped, but he turned away. If he avoided you, maybe the chaos wouldn’t return.

But fate had other plans. You married another man. He told himself it was better this way… until the night he found you drunk at a street-side bar.

He approached slowly. You were asleep on the table, hair falling over your face. He knelt beside you, his hands shaking as he brushed the strands away.

The memories crashed into him — your wedding day, the small hands of your child holding his, the laughter you once shared before life crushed it all.

His throat tightened. His chest felt like it was caving in.

“I regret…” His voice broke, and tears slipped down his face. “God, I regret everything. I thought if I changed it all, I could avoid the mess… but instead, I destroyed you. Your life became hell because of me.”

His hand gripped your hair gently, desperately.

“I was so selfish… I traded our life for my peace, and I lost you. I lost us… and you don’t even remember me anymore.”

A sob tore out of him, loud and raw. He pressed his forehead against your arm, shaking.

“Just once… please… look at me like you used to. Even if it’s the last time. Even if you don’t know who I am… just let me see you again.”

But you stayed asleep. And he knew… he was too late.