Ankit knew this much was certain: he couldn't share the truth of his return with anyone. Otherwise, they'd surely think him mad.
Carefully, he made his way to wake his sister—a bit stubborn, like a piglet but somehow endearing—and it took her a long while to rouse.
She grumbled, swatted at his hand, and buried her face deeper into the pillow before finally cracking one eye open with a glare that could wilt plants. Over breakfast, the quiet Sunday morning hummed around him. The Food was hot, the tea fragrant, and the house felt alive in a way it hadn't in years. You might assume he was twelve and skipping school, but no; it was Sunday after all.
His mind churned with the reality: ten years had slipped backward. Ankit wasn't sure how or why, but some mysterious power had brought him back. That strange, whispering voice in his dreams might hold the key.
Wild theories spun through his thoughts. Maybe it was God's pity, granting him a second chance. Or maybe like the novels he reads, he'd somehow regressed with magical artifacts. But Ankit knew better—he had no artifacts, no accessories, just raw chance.
He pondered what to do next. The obvious answer was money—he could earn it by investing, buying shares, or social media. Yet, his middle-class upbringing and limited resources made investments impossible.
Instead, his passion pointed him to Free Fire. He would make videos, upload them to YouTube, and build a path from his love for the game.
But hurdles loomed: it was 2017; his family had no phone or computer for him. His father firmly withheld a phone, and his mother's old handset was too slow for video editing, tightly restricting his gaming time.
Ankit faced two choices: convince his parents to buy him a phone or confess the unthinkable truth about his time travel. The first was safer but certain to be denied. The second was risky but the only chance.
With his father preparing to leave for work and the doors of opportunity narrowing, Ankit chose risk.
He found his mother washing dishes, sitting beside his father who was sipping tea.
Ensuring his sister was absent, Ankit blurted out, "Dad, I don't want to go to school. I just want to play games all day and make YouTube videos."
Jokes aside, he took a breath: "Dad, this morning I came from the future. I need a phone to do something important."
His father's face hardened. "Making up stories to bother me? I have to get to the office."
But as his father rose, Ankit seized a moment. Calmly, he whispered, "Dad, I know a secret about you. If you don't want me to tell Mom, you have to give me a phone."
His father paused. "My secret? Go on."
Ankit chose a truth only his future-self knew: "You don't like Mom in her favorite dress."
His father's eyes widened. "That's nonsense! I always compliment her." Still, he hurried toward work.
Ankit pressed on, "You told Mom this on your deathbed."
At this, both parents stopped, staring.
"Want a serious beating, Ankit?" Mom's voice was stern.
Dad exhaled, reluctantly curious. "Alright, let's hear him."
"I'm telling the truth," Ankit said quietly. "In 2021, you'll die, and you told Mom to console her heart."
His father nodded, somber. "You're right, I will only said that to soften her pain."
Mother shook her head, disbelief clashing with fear. "Impossible."
"I can tell your secret too," Ankit offered.
His mother didn't want to risk leaking her secret so she changed the topic.