"After nearly 18 long years, here I am again."The words echoed in his mind, disbelief clinging to every syllable. Is this real?
He had doubted this day would ever come. The days leading up to his return were filled with hesitation and second thoughts. Everyone spoke about this place in whispers—its magic, its strange ability to hold sorrow like a sponge, soaking in the emotions of those who dared to linger.
And now… here he stood.
Blood streaked down his arms, wounds burning like molten fire. He leaned against the rough bark of the ancient tree, its surface cold and unyielding beneath his trembling hands.
They said this tree could feel. They said it empathized.
"Back again," he whispered to the silent forest, voice breaking like fragile glass. "But what peace can it bring me now, when I've lost everything?"
His breaths were ragged, shallow. Every inhale dragged pain through his chest like broken glass.
"I didn't come for family. Not love. Not friends," he murmured, each word laced with regret. "I came to save someone… even if it cost me my life. That was my only reason."
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, hollow and sharp. "And I failed."
The weight of those words crushed him, heavier than the blood-soaked clothes clinging to his frame.
"I don't even know how I'll survive after this," he whispered, voice trembling. Then he straightened—resolve glinting like steel through the cracks of despair. "But I can't end it myself. I swore I never would."
So here he was. Sitting at the edge of the same cliff, under the same tree, 18 years later—injured, powerless, and completely alone.
"Take it all," he pleaded, voice cracking as his body sagged against the trunk. "I'll just… close my eyes now. Let me rest. Please, take me into your arms."
The wind stirred gently, rustling the leaves above, as if answering his plea with a soft, sorrowful sigh.
"Maybe… in another life, I'll live for myself." His lips curled faintly at the thought, his voice growing weaker. "Or maybe I'll see her again…"
The sentence fractured mid-breath, the name unsaid—swallowed by the hush of the forest.
And then… nothing.
---
Mars woke with a violent gasp, the dream ripping him out of sleep like a storm tearing through calm waters. His chest heaved, eyes stinging with tears. His T-shirt clung to his body, soaked in cold sweat.
"The same dream," he muttered, the resignation in his voice heavy enough to sink a ship.
The alarm clock screamed in red digits from the bedside table, mocking him with its merciless beeping. He slapped the button, silencing it. "Guess it's time to start the day."
Mars peeled himself off the chair—because of course, he'd passed out at his desk again—and stretched. His body protested with sharp cracks and dull aches, the price of too many nights hunched over a computer screen.
A groan slipped past his lips as he powered down the monitor. The files stared back at him before fading into black: endless tabs, countless articles, all leading nowhere.
---
The shower greeted him like salvation, warm water cascading over his skin, washing away remnants of the dream. Mars tilted his head back, letting the liquid heat numb the edges of his thoughts.
That's when he noticed it—the faint cut tracing his left eyebrow. A thin, jagged line, almost delicate. It didn't hurt much. If anything, it added… character. Rugged, even. The kind of thing some people paid stylists to fake.
"Great," he muttered. "Now I look like some brooding anti-hero from a bad webcomic."
But his reflection stared back, silent, and for a moment, his smirk faltered.
Because the dream… it wasn't fading. It never did.
For nearly ten years, it had haunted him. A cliff. A tree. A man with a voice heavy with despair. The identity of that shadowed figure had never been clear, but the weight of his words carved deep into Mars' mind, night after night.
"Who are you?" he whispered into the steam, voice barely audible over the water's rush. His hand pressed against the cool tile, trembling. "Why do you feel so… real?"
But there was no answer. There never was.
---
By the time Mars stepped out, the chill in the air slapped him across the face like reality's cruel reminder. He bundled his muffler tight around his neck, opting for the warmth of the bus instead of braving the bite of winter on his bike.
"West College of Arts and Music," he told the driver with a polite nod, slipping into a window seat.
Earbuds in. Play. The familiar melody of Alec Benjamin's Paper Crown filled his ears, weaving itself into his thoughts like an old friend. There was something about that song—something that clawed at the edges of his soul, whispering truths he didn't dare name.
The iron gates of West College loomed ahead, majestic as ever. The campus sprawled beyond them like a living memory, every brick steeped in the weight of dreams and ambition.
Mars stepped off the bus, heart pounding with a strange cocktail of nostalgia and unease.
"Let's do this," he whispered, steel settling into his spine as he walked through the gates.
The campus buzzed with chatter, alive with the rhythm of youth. Students in pristine uniforms moved like currents of confidence, their laughter ringing in the cold morning air.
West College wasn't for everyone. It was for the chosen few—wealthy, talented, or simply lucky. Mars could feel the stares, the unspoken question: Who's this guy?
But he ignored them. His focus was razor sharp as he reached the Dean's office.
The man greeted him warmly, ushering him inside. "Welcome back, Mars. Ready to meet your students?"
Mars nodded with an easy smile. "Good to be back."
Together, they climbed to the second-floor literature room. The door opened to silence, an unnatural hush that settled like fog.
"Fashionably late, I see," the Dean muttered, a trace of amusement coloring his voice.
Mars chuckled under his breath—right before the sound of footsteps thundered up the stairs.
And then they appeared—the trio everyone in college seemed to know: Warrin, loud and unapologetic; Liam, tall with that easy swagger; and a girl whose presence hit Mars like a whisper of something forgotten.
For a second, time slowed. Her gaze met his. And something in his chest shifted.
The Dean broke the moment. "Students, settle down."
Mars straightened as introductions were made. "I'm Mars," he said simply, a warm smile curving his lips. "Let's get along."
The class murmured in surprise, curiosity sparking like wildfire. But for Summer—the girl—there was something else in her eyes. Something Mars couldn't name.
Not yet.