Sunday mornings had a stillness to them—a kind of aching quiet that made Ryan hyper-aware of everything he'd lost and everything he was trying to build. The sunlight filtering through his bedroom blinds should have felt warm. Instead, it carried the weight of memory.
He sat on the edge of his bed, laptop shut, the spreadsheet for "Reclaim Digital" untouched since last night. For the first time since his return, he didn't want to think about business. He wasn't poring over profit margins or online marketplaces. He was staring at the photo in his hand.
It was slightly faded, its corners curled. The three of them stood in front of the Grand Canyon: his dad, solid and square-jawed with his trusty old Nikon hanging from his neck; his mom, wearing a floppy sunhat and oversized sunglasses that made her look like a movie star; and Ryan—ten years old, grinning with his arms stretched wide as though trying to embrace the whole horizon.
He had found the photo tucked in an old scrapbook a few days after waking up in this timeline. He hadn't looked at it since. Now, it felt like a lifeline.
His father's heart attack would hit in less than a decade. A silent killer that struck after Ryan stopped returning phone calls. His mom's diagnosis came later, and he had been too buried in lawsuits and failed partnerships to fly home when she started chemo.
He could fix that now.
If he made the time.
The knock at the door startled him.
"Breakfast in ten, hon. French toast," his mom called gently.
"Okay," Ryan said. "Coming."
He tucked the photo into his drawer like it was something sacred, and pulled on a hoodie.
---
The kitchen smelled like heaven.
Vanilla. Cinnamon. Maple syrup warmed on the stove. He paused in the doorway, watching the familiar scene with unfamiliar eyes.
His mom was at the stove, flipping the last few slices of toast in her favorite cast iron pan, humming along to the radio. She looked younger than he remembered—not by age, but by energy. She moved easily, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail, sleeves rolled up.
His dad sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and working on the crossword from the Sunday paper. He wore a faded college sweatshirt and thick glasses. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he circled another word.
"Smells good," Ryan said as he stepped in.
"Well, I thought I'd treat my boys," his mom replied, plating the toast. "Your father won three bucks on a scratch ticket yesterday, so we're basically high-rollers."
"We should invest it," Ryan deadpanned, sitting down. "Maybe in, I don't know—Google."
His dad chuckled. "Is that the internet thing? Didn't someone say it's just a fad?"
Ryan smiled faintly. "A pretty lucrative fad."
His mom placed the plate in front of him and tousled his hair. "Eat. Before it gets cold."
They settled in, forks clinking, syrup drizzling. Ryan soaked it in—the warmth, the simplicity, the way his parents laughed together, teased each other. He'd traded all of this in his past life for ambition, and by the time he realized what he'd lost, it was too late.
Now, the ache inside him wasn't just nostalgia. It was resolve.
"So," his dad said, dabbing syrup off his chin. "What's going on with you lately? You've been different. Not in a bad way. Just... focused."
Ryan looked between them.
He could lie. Or he could give them a sliver of truth.
"I've been thinking a lot about the future," he said carefully. "Trying to plan smarter. Make good decisions before it's too late."
His mom raised an eyebrow. "You're seventeen. You have time."
"Time goes faster than you think."
They shared a glance.
"Is this about college?" his dad asked. "Because we'll support you however we can. You know that."
Ryan hesitated, then shook his head. "It's not about school. Not exactly. I just... I made some mistakes. And I want to be better this time."
His mom reached over and squeezed his hand. "You're a good kid, Ryan. You're allowed to stumble. Just don't forget who you are."
He swallowed hard.
I did forget, he thought. But I won't this time.
After breakfast, Ryan helped clean up. His dad went to rake leaves. His mom started laundry. And for the first time in a long while, Ryan didn't retreat to his room or plug in his headphones.
He stayed.
He stood in the yard and helped his dad bag the leaves, watching the way he moved—strong, steady, yet already carrying the early signs of the heart condition that would one day end his life.
"You doing okay, son?" his dad asked, pausing to catch his breath.
Ryan nodded. "Yeah. I just realized I've taken a lot for granted."
His dad looked at him curiously. "You've got time to figure things out. Don't burn yourself out trying to fix everything today."
Ryan wanted to say more. To tell him to get checked. To stop smoking. To eat better. But he knew how that would sound.
So instead, he said, "Let's just spend more Sundays like this."
His dad smiled. "Deal."
---
That evening, Ryan sat in his room again, staring at the open document for Reclaim Digital. The empire could wait one more night. Because he knew now that success wasn't just about winning the battles in front of him.
It was about choosing not to lose the things that really mattered.
Tomorrow, the hustle would begin again.
But tonight, he was home.