The morning felt too ordinary for an ending.
Belo Horizonte woke to its usual sounds: impatient horns, the metallic screech of aging buses, hurried footsteps on cracked sidewalks. The smell of burnt bread from a distant bakery mixed with the stench of diesel, and the dull gray sky hung over the city like a tired sheet. Marcos Stefano Barbosa’s phone read 7:43 a.m.
Marcos Stefano Barbosa, 33 years old, walked in silence. In his hand, he carried a light-blue folder filled with sketches, drafts, blueprints, and notes — the final project in a lifetime of efforts.
He wore a faded gray hoodie, worn-out jeans, and sneakers stained with red dust. His shoulders slumped slightly, as if the weight of his own existence pulled him down with every step. He avoided eye contact. He was tired — of fighting, of trying, of waiting for the country to change while he was still inside it.
To his right, a billboard flashed: “Innovation is our strength!”, boldly proclaimed by the same company that had rejected his proposal the week before. He chuckled bitterly.
He had submitted a design for a modular solar-powered water filtration system, tailored for isolated communities in the semi-arid Northeast. Cheap, efficient, sustainable.
“Beautiful, but unviable in the current political scenario,” they had said.
It was his third rejection in less than twenty days. Ever since resigning from his last company — after exposing internal corruption — Marcos hadn’t been able to fit in anywhere. His name had become stained. A difficult genius. A problem disguised as a solution.
He stopped at a bus stop along Avenida Cristiano Machado and sat down. His hands, slightly sweaty, clenched the folder. His phone buzzed again.
NestPlus HR: Thank you for applying. Unfortunately, we have selected another candidate.
Another one. The twelfth rejection that month.
— Brazil spat me out — he muttered, void of emotion.
He looked around. A woman fed pigeons with stale bread. A young man played Free Fire on his phone, blasting funk through cheap earbuds. A street vendor shouted, “Gum is one real, boss!”
The city didn’t change. Life didn’t change. Only he seemed frozen — like corrupted code trying to run on outdated hardware.
The bus arrived with a groan. He climbed on and sat at the very back, resting his head against the window.
“If only I could start over… but with everything I know now.”
That thought had haunted him for years. A childish fantasy, some would say. But for someone like Marcos — obsessed with logic, with systems, with structure — the idea of “returning with knowledge” was more than a dream. It was the ideal plan.
He closed his eyes.
And the world… shut off.
Transition
There was no sound. No smell. No body. Only absolute white.
A silence so deep it ached — if he still had ears.
Then, a voice echoed. Cold. Neutral. Without emotion.
“User identified: Marcos Stefano Barbosa.”
“Potential wasted in original timeline.”
“Initializing temporal reassignment for strategic knowledge application.”
“Destination: Brazilian Empire. Year: 1831.”
— Did I… die?
“You’ve been transferred.”
— Is this a dream?
“SRN System activated.”
“You will receive missions, objectives, rewards, and limited access to historical data.”
— SRN…?
“National Restructuring System.”
And then, the ground returned.
Impact
Marcos’s body fell from some invisible height. He tumbled down a hill, coughing up dirt and dry grass, until he landed flat on his back. The sun burned overhead. The air… pure. No smoke. No pollution. No sirens.
Panting, he sat up. In the distance, a village of clay houses, old-fashioned clothes, and horse-drawn carts. A Brazil he’d only read about in history books.
And in front of him, floating in the air, a translucent blue panel displayed:
[Initial Mission: Establish a trade route between local villages.]
[Reward: Alkaline soap recipe + local reputation bonus.]
Marcos smiled. A real smile — for the first time in years.
— I have the knowledge… and a second chance.
And this time, Brazil would change with him.