corridor.
The morning air of the building carried a clean scent—faintly of polished wood and jasmine from the planters that lined each floor. It was the kind of smell that came from both care and money.
The apartment complex stood like a monument to quiet privilege—a mid-rise tower built of pale stone and glass, overlooking the river that sliced through the city's central district.
Each unit had wide balconies, smart systems, and imported fixtures that caught the light just enough to look expensive without bragging about it.
Andrew walked down the hallway, his steps muffled by the thick carpet that ran the length of it.
The walls were lined with minimalist paintings—tranquil blues and whites chosen to soothe. Everything was just as he remembered. The sound of the elevator's soft chime felt almost too gentle for reality.
It is the place that carried a lot of his memories. But this time, he had a lot of things on his table to be solved.
Plus, there were also those missions, which needed to be carried out, or else time would revert back to the original storyline that he had read. Which is the last thing he wanted to live like.
The doors opened with a whisper, and as he descended, he caught his reflection in the mirrored panel.
A young man—sixteen, maybe seventeen—stared back. His hair was slightly disheveled, and his eyes were darker than they should've been for his age.
The elevator stopped at the floor below.
The digital screen blinked: 8F.
He hesitated for a breath. This was it.
The world he'd left behind. The world he'd died in. The world that had turned his first love into tragedy.
As the doors slid open, he stepped into the familiar corridor.
Mia's apartment door stood at the far end—a delicate cream color with a small silver plate engraved with her family name. Even the faint citrus scent wafting from the hallway was the same as before—her mother, Elena, had always preferred natural fragrances over synthetic ones.
He walked slowly, letting his hand graze the cool surface of the wall. The morning light pouring in from the tall window at the end of the hallway painted the space in soft gold, illuminating dust motes that danced lazily in the air.
Andrew rested his hand against Mia's door for a moment, feeling the faint hum of his heartbeat in his fingertips.
The System flickered faintly in the corner of his vision, displaying a soft pulse beside her name—a subtle reminder that time, for now, was still on his side.
"Alright…" he whispered to himself.
"Let's begin."
Andrew exhaled once and knocked gently.
Knock. Knock.
For a moment, only silence. Then came the soft shuffle of slippers and the faint click of a lock.
The door opened, revealing Clara Wells—Mia's mother.
Even after all this time, she still carried the same quiet grace. Her dark hair, tied loosely at the back, framed gentle features touched by fatigue but not age.
She was wearing a pale cardigan, the scent of brewed coffee lingering faintly around her.
Well, one has to say that she definitely had that character of the so-called MILF, from earth stories, something that would stir weird emotion in another's chest, as Andrew was feeling at the moment.
"Andrew?" she said, blinking in mild surprise before a smile softened her face. "It's been a while, sweetheart. You're up early."
Andrew bowed his head slightly, forcing a polite smile. "Good morning, Aunt Clara. Sorry to bother you so early. Is Mia home?"
Clara stepped aside, gesturing warmly. "Of course, come in. You're always welcome."
He entered, the familiar comfort of their apartment washing over him—polished floors, framed photographs along the hallway, and the faint sound of birds from the balcony outside.
The Wells family's home had always been bright and tastefully elegant, the kind of space that whispered money but felt like home.
Clara led him toward the living room, where morning sunlight spilled across the ivory rug. A mug of coffee sat half-finished on the glass table, a book turned face down beside it.
"So," she said, folding her arms loosely, "Are you looking for Mia?"
"Yes," Andrew replied, hesitating a moment. "I was just a little worried. She left in the middle of class the other day and hasn't come since."
"I tried calling, but she didn't pick up. I thought maybe she wasn't feeling well." He continued, with a silent worry lacing his words.
Clara's expression shifted slightly—a flicker of concern behind her composure. She set her mug down and sighed softly.
"She's been… quiet these past few days," she admitted. "Locked herself in her room most of the time. Said she wasn't feeling up to going out. I thought maybe it was just stress from college, but…" She paused, frowning faintly.
"You said she left class early?"
Andrew nodded. "Yeah. She didn't say anything to anyone. Just… walked out. It didn't seem like her."
Clara's brows knitted. "That doesn't sound like her at all. She usually tells me if she's struggling with something."
"She might not want to worry you," he offered gently, though inside his mind was a storm of recognition. He knew this moment. He had lived it before—the first rip in the fabric of the life he'd known.
Clara sighed again and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll go check on her. Maybe she'll open up if she knows you're here."
"No," Andrew said quickly, rising from his seat before Clara could take a step. "I think… I should be the one to talk to her."
Clara blinked, surprised by the sudden firmness in his voice.
He softened his tone, meeting her eyes. "I don't want to overstep, Aunt Clara, but… I think she's trying to hide something. And if I'm right, the person she least wants to worry about is you."
Clara hesitated, her fingers curling slightly against the edge of the table. For a moment, the confident composure of a mother was replaced by something else—worry, confusion, helplessness.
"You really think so?" she asked quietly.
Andrew nodded. "Mia's always been like that. Whenever she's hurting, she pretends it's fine as long as the people she loves don't see it. Especially you."
It wasn't a guess. It was a memory—one carved deep enough to sting.
Clara exhaled slowly, studying him for a moment. There was something in Andrew's eyes—a seriousness, a maturity that didn't quite fit his age. It was as though he knew exactly what kind of pain her daughter was carrying.
After a long pause, she gave a small nod. "If that's alright with you, then… I'll leave it up to you."
Her voice softened, her trust apparent. "You've always been someone she could rely on, Andrew. Maybe hearing a friend's voice will help her more than hearing mine."
He smiled faintly, though there was little joy in it. "I'll try my best."
Clara stepped aside, gesturing toward the hallway. "You know where her room is."
Andrew did. Every creak in the wooden floor and every painting on the wall felt etched into him like a map of déjà vu. As he walked, he could feel Clara's gaze lingering for a moment before she quietly turned away—perhaps to give them space, perhaps because she feared what she might hear.
At the end of the corridor, the faint glow of light leaked from beneath a closed door.
Mia's room.
Andrew stopped in front of it, his heartbeat steady but heavy, like the calm before a storm. He placed his hand against the cool surface of the door, feeling the faint vibration of music from inside—soft, melancholy, and familiar.
Last time, he thought, 'I walked away.'
But this time, he wouldn't.
Knock. Knock.
"Mia… it's me."
Andrew's voice trembled, just slightly—the kind of tremor that comes from holding back a flood of emotion. The soft echo of his words slipped through the cracks of the door, spreading into the stillness of the room beyond.
Inside, Mia sat curled on the edge of her bed, knees drawn to her chest. The morning light filtered through the blinds, tracing pale lines across her face. Her eyes were red, her breaths uneven. When she heard his voice, something in her chest clenched—a mix of comfort and pain she could barely name.
"Andy?" she called out, trying to sound casual and steady. "Something up? I just… don't feel well."
Her tone was light, but the faint quiver at the end betrayed her. Andrew closed his eyes for a moment. Even without seeing her, he could feel it—the turmoil twisting inside her heart. The System made sure of that; it let him sense emotions too complex for words.
But this time, he hadn't come unprepared.
He knew what was coming—the next few days, the wall she would build around herself, and the pain that would eat at her when no one was watching. He had lived it before, in another time.
"That's good," Andrew finally said, his voice low and steady. "I'm glad you're resting."
He paused, then exhaled. "But… Mia, I think I'm going to die in two months."
The words hit the air like a stone dropped into still water.
Inside the room, Mia froze. For a heartbeat, she thought she had misheard. But the silence that followed only made the meaning heavier—too heavy to dismiss.
"What… what are you saying?" she whispered, her breath hitching.
Andrew smiled faintly, though she couldn't see it. "It's not a joke. Mathew's going to kill me."
It wasn't entirely a lie—not in the way time had once unfolded. In that other reality, his death had come exactly as he'd said. But now, with his second chance, he didn't plan to die again.
Mia's hands trembled. She remembered that night—the look in Mathew's eyes, the words she'd been forced to agree to. 'If you want to keep your precious Andrew safe…'
She had begged. She had obeyed.
And still, it hadn't saved him.
The chill in Andrew's tone told her one thing — somehow, impossibly, he knew.
"And before that happens," Andrew continued softly, "I just… wanted to see you. One last time."
For a long while, there was no sound. Only the faint hum of the air conditioner and the ragged breathing of a girl trying not to break apart. A single tear slipped down Mia's cheek, glistening like a shard of glass in the light.
Then came a faint click.
Andrew turned just as the doorknob twisted, and the door creaked open. Mia stood there—her hair unkempt, eyes swollen from crying, and shoulders trembling. But what struck him most was the look in her eyes: the hollow mix of guilt, fear, and desperate love.
"Why…" she began, her voice cracking. "No… how did you know?"
Andrew met her gaze—calm, unwavering. "Because I already died, Mia," he said softly. "And this morning… I woke up."
She stared at him, breathless.
"I think," he added, taking a small step forward, "Mathew isn't the only one with a supernatural ability."
The air between them felt alive—charged with something unseen. Time itself seemed to hesitate, holding its breath as if the world knew that from this moment on, nothing would ever be the same again.
For a long heartbeat, neither of them moved. The space between Andrew and Mia felt dense—thick with things left unsaid, memories that weren't supposed to exist in this lifetime.
Then, suddenly, Andrew's eyes softened. The tension drained from his shoulders as something warm welled up from deep inside—a pulse of emotion that blurred his vision. His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, a single tear slipped down his cheek.
Mia…
No matter how she looked now—her hair tangled, eyes swollen, voice trembling—she was still her. The same girl whose laughter once filled his entire world. The same girl he had lost, watched crumble, and could never reach again.
"Mia…" His voice cracked as her name left his lips.
Before she could speak, he stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.
It wasn't planned. His body just moved—as if all those empty years in that other world had been leading to this single moment. Her body was small, soft, and trembling against his chest. The faint scent of her hair—a hint of citrus and shampoo—flooded his senses. And for the first time in fifteen years, Andrew felt alive.
The pain of his previous life, the loneliness of a world that never belonged to him, and the guilt of dying powerless—all of it seemed to fade under the warmth of her presence.
"Andy…" Mia's voice quivered. She felt the tremor in his hands as he held her—that silent, desperate need to make sure she was real. Something about it struck her deeply enough to bring tears to her eyes again.
"It's alright," he whispered near her ear, his tone calm but firm—the kind of voice that carried a promise. "I was the useless one before. But this time, Mia… I'll protect you."
He pulled back slightly, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with confusion and disbelief.
"So… will you believe in me?"
Mia's lips parted. The boy standing before her wasn't quite the Andrew she remembered. There was something heavier in his eyes—a maturity that didn't belong to someone their age, a quiet fire that almost frightened her.
"But… he can stop the world, Andy," she said softly. The fear in her tone was genuine, the trauma behind her words raw and unhealed. "You don't understand—if you go against him—"
"I do understand," Andrew interrupted gently. "And I'm not the same helpless fool I was before."
Then, without warning, he whispered two words.
"Astral Bind."
The world around them shifted—subtly, but unmistakably. The air grew dense, like invisible threads were weaving through the room. Mia gasped as a faint luminescent pattern flickered across her skin, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. Her limbs went light, her balance uncertain, and before she could even think to move, her body froze in place.
Her eyes widened. "A-Andy… what—"
"Mia, right hand up."
His tone was calm—teasing, even—and to her horror, her hand obeyed instantly, rising into the air against her will.
Her heart pounded. "What—how are you—"
Andrew smiled faintly, not mockingly, but with a kind of sad confidence. "See? He's not the only one who can do this."
He let the spell fade, and Mia felt her body return to her control. She stumbled slightly, her breath uneven, staring at him in disbelief.
"That was…" she whispered, "real."
Andrew nodded. "One of my… abilities," he admitted. "Astral Bind—my second gift. It activates whenever I'm in danger or when I choose to use it. It's not just time that can be stopped, Mia—everything can be bound, even consciousness itself."
Her eyes darted over his face—the calm certainty, the quiet determination. For the first time, she realized how much he had changed.
Mathew's "Void Time" had once been the most terrifying ability in the world she knew. But Andrew's—his power—felt deeper, older, something that defied even the natural laws of the world around them.
And as the last shimmer of the Astral Bind faded from the air, Mia could only whisper, almost to herself—
"Then maybe… this time, we really can change it."