The days after the tragedy were cloaked in sorrow for Ethan and his aunt, Aurora.
Their cramped apartment felt like a tomb, heavy with the absence of Ethan's parents.
Ethan, now trapped in the body of a three-year-old, had a far sharper understanding of their plight than he'd had in his original childhood.
The memories of his 25-year-old self gave him a painful clarity, like a map of a road he'd already traveled—one that led to heartbreak.
He understood, with a weight that pressed on his tiny chest, why Aurora wasn't just perpetually sad but sometimes erupted in cries of fury and helplessness.
Her violet eyes, usually so full of warmth, were often shadowed with despair, half-hidden by the fringe of her jet-black hair.
She'd sit at the rickety kitchen table, staring at bills, her hands trembling as she tried to make the numbers add up.
'Without my parents here... We'll spend the next 15 years drowning in poverty,' Ethan thought, his small fingers twisting the edge of a frayed blanket.
'I'll get a top-notch education, paid for by her endless overtime and grueling hours. She'll take on extra shifts at the diner, clean houses on weekends, anything to keep us fed. This brutal pace will break her, make her sick, and she'll die.'
The thought cut deeper than any wound, a jagged edge in his heart. He stared at the scuffed wooden floor, his vision blurring with unshed tears. The world felt impossibly vast.
He couldn't reach the countertop, let alone the high shelves where Aurora stashed the snacks. Crossing the living room, with its worn rug and sagging couch, was an exhausting trek for his short legs.
Even the floor seemed too close, a cruel reminder of his childish limitations.
There were so few things he could do to help in this body. His hands were too small to carry anything heavy, his voice too high to be taken seriously, his energy too fleeting. And yet, he couldn't just stand by. He had to act.
Aurora's voice shattered his thoughts, raw and desperate as she spoke into her cellphone.
'But she was your sister too! I'm begging you, Licia, I need you to listen,' she pleaded, pacing the narrow hallway, her footsteps heavy on the creaking floor. 'If I don't get back to work soon... I know you have your job too, but you can still take vacation days! That would give me some time to—'
The call ended abruptly, and Aurora froze, her knuckles white around the phone. For a moment, Ethan thought she'd fling it across the room, smashing it against the faded wall.
But she stopped herself, her shoulders slumping as she remembered they couldn't afford a new one.
She sank to the floor beside the couch, hugging her knees to her chest and sobbing softly. Her dark hair curtained her face, hiding her tears, but Ethan could feel her pain from where he stood in the shadowed hallway, clutching the doorframe.
She didn't know he was watching, didn't know her anguish was searing itself into his soul.
"Who's going to look after Ethan...? Daycare is expensive, and leaving him alone isn't an option" she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. Even in her despair, even as she broke, Aurora was thinking of him—of his safety, his future.
Ethan's eyes glistened, but he clenched his tiny fists, fighting to keep the tears at bay. He couldn't let her see him cry. Not now. Not when he knew the sacrifices she'd made in his previous timeline—the sleepless nights, the meals she'd skipped, the smiles she'd forced to shield him from her pain.
This time, it would be different. Though his three-year-old body was a frustrating cage, he still had the mind of a 25-year-old. There were things he could do, however small, to lighten her load.
With short but determined steps, he approached her. Aurora was still on the floor, her face buried in her knees. Ethan squared his shoulders, trying to look strong, resolute—like the man he was inside. But to Aurora, he was just her little nephew, puffing out his chest awkwardly, standing on tiptoes to seem taller, his round face set in a comically serious frown.
"Ethan? Is something wrong, sweetheart?'" she asked, forcing a smile. Her eyes were red, her cheeks streaked with tears, but she tried to hide it for his sake.
"I can stay by myself!" Ethan declared, his high-pitched voice betraying his age.
Aurora's eyes widened. Since his parents' death, Ethan had been distant, barely speaking beyond short, mumbled replies. She'd feared he was retreating into himself, lost in grief.
In truth, Ethan was guarding his secret, terrified that any hint of his time-travel would spark a butterfly effect and unravel everything.
But right now, none of that mattered. This was one of the things he'd vowed to change.
He'd help Aurora however he could, give her the life she deserved—a life he'd failed to give her before.
Aurora's lips curved into a smile, this time genuine and warm, her heart touched by his earnestness. Ethan's chest swelled with pride, thinking she was relieved by the burden he'd lifted.
"I love you so much, Ethan" she said, placing a gentle hand on his head.
Her violet eyes seemed to pierce his soul, even with her bangs half-covering them. Ethan felt exposed, as if she could see the man beneath the child's facade.
She placed both hands on his shoulders, turning to sit cross-legged in front of him.
"But you don't have to worry about that. Your aunt's super strong! So let me handle everything, okay?"
"I really can stay by myself! I can help you, Mom!"
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
'Mom.' His heart sank.
Aurora didn't yet know he'd always seen her as a mother—the one who'd raised him, loved him, sacrificed everything.
He braced for her reaction, but she only looked surprised, then softened.
"I want to help!" he insisted, his voice trembling with desperation.
His small body shook, suddenly weak and unsteady. Aurora caught him in a warm embrace, kissing his forehead.
"You're still a kid, Ethan. If you really see me as your mom, you have to understand it's a parent's job to make sure you don't have those worries" she whispered, her voice thick with love.
She then lifted him effortlessly, carrying him to his small bed in the corner of the room.
It was time to sleep.
For Ethan, this was unbearable. He was supposed to use his second chance to save his loved ones, to rewrite their tragic fates.
But how could he in this frail body? For the next ten years, his options were painfully limited.
Not until he turned eight would the first real opportunity arise—the day he met William.
He burrowed deeper into his blankets, his mind racing. Any major change to his childhood could ripple outward, creating outcomes so different he'd lose all ability to predict the future.
'Is it worth taking that risk? Everything would get so complicated...' he thought, chewing his lip.
But then he remembered Aurora's death. The sterile hospital room, her frail hand in his, the way he'd sobbed, hating himself for failing her.
That memory burned away his doubts.
He slapped his cheeks with all the force his tiny arms could manage.
'What's wrong with me? She's practically my mother! Of course it's worth the risk.'
Ethan settled into bed, a strange warmth spreading through his body.
Since returning to the past, he'd felt an odd sensation, like something foreign was creeping into him, settling in his bones.
He'd dismissed it as a quirk of inhabiting a younger body, a side effect of the Collider's time-travel experiment. But it was growing stronger, pulsing through his veins, undeniable.
'Well... Traveling to the past without any consequences seemed unlikely,' he thought, wincing as he clutched his chest.
Then he felt it—his heartbeat.
Slow. Far too slow.
He counted one beat every five seconds, his breath catching in terror.
'What's happening to me?' he wondered, his small hand trembling.
Those weren't the heartbeats of an adult, let alone a three-year-old. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.