Nathan stood frozen, his eyes locked on Maya as she waited for an explanation. The familiar contours of her face, unmarked by the years of resentment that would eventually consume their marriage, seemed almost surreal. This was his wife as she had been—young, ambitious, still carrying traces of the hope they'd once shared.
"I... I'm sorry," Nathan stammered, his voice hoarse from confusion and disbelief. "I was just... I didn't sleep well last night."
Maya sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment that sent a chill down Nathan's spine. Even eleven years ago, that tone of exasperation had been there, waiting to grow into the cold indifference he'd witnessed in the lawyer's office.
"Nathan, you can't keep doing this," she said, adjusting her blazer with practiced efficiency. "I have a presentation at the firm today, and I can't be worried about whether you're having some kind of breakdown at home."
She moved toward the small kitchen counter where her briefcase waited, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor. "Don't forget about grandmother's party tonight. Seven o'clock sharp at the mansion. And please..." She paused at the door, not bothering to look back. "Try to make yourself presentable. The Hendersons will be there, and grandmother is already embarrassed enough by this arrangement."
The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Nathan alone in the apartment that suddenly felt more like a prison than a home.
For several minutes, he remained motionless, staring at the spot where Maya had stood. The weight of what had happened—or what would happen—pressed down on him like a physical force. Eleven years. He had eleven years to change everything, to avoid the humiliation, the divorce, the murder on the bridge.
But where to start?
Moving like a man in a trance, Nathan began cleaning the apartment. He washed the dishes Maya had left in the sink, folded the laundry she'd abandoned on the bed, and vacuumed the small living room carpet. Each mundane task felt surreal, as if he were watching someone else perform these actions while his mind struggled to process the impossible.
The clock on the wall read 2:30 PM when he finally finished. The apartment was spotless, but the achievement felt hollow. In his previous life—future life?—Maya had never noticed or appreciated his efforts around the house. Her family had convinced her that domestic work was beneath someone of her breeding, that she deserved a husband who could afford a cleaning service.
Nathan found himself walking toward the park without conscious decision. His feet carried him along the familiar streets, past the coffee shop where he and Maya used to share Sunday mornings, past the bookstore where they'd spent hours browsing together in the early days of their marriage.
The park bench was exactly as he remembered—weathered wood with initials carved by countless couples who'd believed their love would last forever. Nathan sat heavily, his hands trembling as the magnitude of his situation finally hit him.
"This is real," he whispered to the empty air. "I'm really here. Eleven years in the past."
The sounds of the park surrounded him—children laughing, dogs barking, the distant hum of traffic. Everything felt vivid, immediate, undeniably real. The hot water burns on his face still stung, and he could smell the lingering scent of Maya's perfume on his clothes.
But how? How was this possible? Was it some kind of divine intervention, a second chance from a universe that had recognized the injustice of his fate? Or was he simply dying on that bridge, his brain conjuring this elaborate fantasy as his final neurons fired?
A jogger ran past, her ponytail swaying rhythmically, and Nathan's breath caught. The woman looked exactly like someone he'd seen in the park the day before his murder—the same day he'd sat on this very bench, wondering where his life had gone wrong.
Suddenly, a memory struck him with the force of lightning. His mother. In his original timeline, he'd lost contact with her after the first year of marriage. Maya's family had insisted that his "lower-class" relatives were an embarrassment, that maintaining relationships with them would damage Maya's reputation in society. Like a fool, he'd complied, choosing his wife's comfort over his mother's feelings.
It wasn't until years later that he'd learned the truth—his mother had developed liver disease, had spent months in and out of hospitals, alone. By the time he'd defied the Bennett family long enough to visit her, she was already gone. The guilt had eaten at him for the rest of his marriage, another failure to add to his growing list.
But now... now he could change that.
Nathan shot to his feet and ran toward the street, his heart pounding with desperate urgency. He flagged down a taxi with frantic gestures.
"Lower East Side," he gasped to the driver. "Rivington Street. Fast as you can."
The cab pulled away from the curb, carrying Nathan through the city that would eventually chew him up and spit him out. As they drove deeper into the older parts of town, the neighborhoods grew progressively more rundown. Gentrification hadn't reached these streets yet—wouldn't for another few years. The buildings stood like weathered sentinels, their facades marked by decades of urban decay.
Nathan's chest tightened as familiar sights flashed past the window. This was where he'd grown up, where his mother still lived in the same tiny apartment she'd called home for over thirty years. The same apartment the Bennett family had deemed "unsuitable for a man of Maya's husband's station."
The taxi pulled up in front of a narrow brick building squeezed between a laundromat and a bodega. Nathan paid the fare with shaking hands and stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the second-floor window where a small plant sat on the sill—his mother's one attempt to bring life to the urban landscape.
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step echoing in the narrow hallway. The carpet was worn thin, and the fluorescent light overhead flickered intermittently. At door number 12, Nathan paused, his hand raised to knock.
What would he say? How could he explain his absence without revealing the impossible truth?
His knuckles rapped against the door three times. Footsteps approached from inside, and Nathan held his breath.
The door opened, and Nathan's world tilted. There she stood—Eleanor Parker, his mother, looking exactly as she had eleven years ago. Her graying hair was pulled back in a simple bun, and she wore the faded blue dress she'd always favored for housework. But it was her face that broke Nathan's heart. She looked older than her sixty-two years, marked by worry and loneliness that he now knew he had caused.
"Nathan?" Her voice was barely a whisper, as if she feared he might disappear if she spoke too loudly.
Tears spilled down Nathan's cheeks without warning. "Mom."
Eleanor pulled him into her arms, and Nathan collapsed against her, feeling like a child again. Her embrace was exactly as he remembered—warm, unconditional, forgiving. She smelled like the lavender soap she'd used for as long as he could remember.
"Oh, my boy," she whispered, stroking his hair. "My sweet boy, you came home."
She led him inside to the small kitchen where every surface was meticulously clean despite the apartment's age. The same checkered tablecloth covered the tiny table, and the same ceramic salt and pepper shakers—shaped like chickens—sat in their designated spots.
"Sit, sit," Eleanor fussed, immediately moving to put the kettle on. "I'll make tea. Are you hungry? I have some soup I made yesterday..."
Nathan watched her bustle around the familiar space, his heart breaking with each motherly gesture. How had he let Maya's family convince him to abandon this woman? How had he been so weak, so desperate for acceptance, that he'd thrown away the one person who'd loved him unconditionally?
"Mom," he said softly as she set a steaming cup before him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for staying away."
Eleanor sat across from him, her weathered hands wrapped around her own cup. "You're here now. That's all that matters."
"No, it's not all that matters." Nathan's voice grew stronger. "I should have come sooner. I should have called. I let... I let Maya's family convince me that I was protecting you by staying away, but I was really just being a coward."
His mother's eyes glistened. "Nathan, you don't have to explain. I know marriage changes things. I know her family doesn't approve of people like us."
"People like us are worth a hundred of them," Nathan said fiercely. "Mom, I need you to listen to me. I need you to promise me something."
Eleanor leaned forward, concerned by his intensity. "What is it, sweetheart?"
"I need you to go to the doctor. Soon. Get a full checkup—blood work, liver function, everything."
His mother blinked in surprise. "A checkup? Nathan, I feel fine. I can't afford—"
"I'll pay for it," Nathan interrupted. "Whatever it costs, I'll find a way. Please, Mom. Promise me."
"What brought this on?" Eleanor studied her son's face with the intuition only a mother possessed. "Has something happened? Are you sick?"
"I'm not sick. I just... I've been thinking about how precious life is, how quickly things can change. I want to make sure you're healthy. I want to take better care of you."
Eleanor reached across the table and took his hands in hers. "Oh, Nathan. You've always been such a good boy, even when you were little. Always worried about everyone else."
Nathan's phone buzzed against his leg. He pulled it out to see Maya's name on the screen.
"Hello?"
"Nathan, where are you?" Maya's voice was sharp with irritation. "The party started an hour ago, and grandmother is asking why you're not here yet."
Nathan glanced at the kitchen clock—8:15 PM. How had the time passed so quickly?
"I'm sorry, I got held up. I'll be there soon."
"You better be. And Nathan? Please tell me you're not wearing those torn jeans and that old t-shirt."
The line went dead. Nathan stared at his phone, then looked down at his clothes—the same worn jeans and faded shirt he'd been wearing when he woke up this morning. In his previous life, these clothes had been a constant source of embarrassment for Maya, a visible reminder of his lower-class origins.
"I have to go," Nathan said, standing reluctantly. "But I meant what I said about the doctor, Mom. I'll call you tomorrow to set up the appointment."
Eleanor walked him to the door, her face glowing with happiness despite his quick departure. "Will you come see me again soon? Maybe we could have dinner together like we used to?"
"I promise," Nathan said, hugging her tightly. "I'll come see you every week if you'll have me."
"I'll always have you, Nathan. You're my son."
The taxi ride to the Bennett mansion took twenty minutes, carrying Nathan from his mother's humble neighborhood to the exclusive enclave where Maya's family held court. The contrast was jarring—manicured lawns replaced broken sidewalks, luxury cars lined streets where no potholes dared appear.
The Bennett mansion loomed before him like a monument to old money and older prejudices. Every window blazed with light, and the sound of classical music drifted from the grand ballroom where Priscilla Bennett held court over Philadelphia's social elite.
Maya appeared at the front door before Nathan could ring the bell, her face a mask of barely controlled frustration.
"Finally," she hissed, grabbing his arm. "Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is? Grandmother has been asking about you all evening, and I've been making excuses."
Nathan looked down at his clothes, then at Maya's elegant black cocktail dress. "I'm sorry. I should have gone home to change first."
"Yes, you should have." Maya's voice cut like ice. "Sometimes I wonder if you do these things on purpose, just to humiliate me in front of my family."
They entered the mansion together, Maya maintaining a practiced smile while Nathan felt every judgmental glance from the assembled guests. The ballroom was exactly as he remembered—crystal chandeliers casting rainbow patterns on marble floors, oil paintings of long-dead Bennett ancestors staring down from gilded frames.
And there they were—all the people who had made his life a living hell. Priscilla Bennett held court near the fireplace, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her diamonds catching the light as she gestured imperiously. David Bennett lurked near the bar, already showing signs of the alcoholism that would eventually consume him. Janet Bennett flitted between social groups, desperate to maintain her position in her mother's shadow.
But it was the man standing beside Priscilla who made Nathan's blood run cold. Jason Williams, younger but no less arrogant, was regaling a small crowd with what appeared to be a humorous anecdote. Even eleven years ago, he'd been circling Maya like a predator, waiting for his chance.
These people had destroyed him once. They'd isolated him from his family, crushed his spirit, and ultimately murdered him on a bridge. But now he had something they didn't—knowledge of the future, awareness of their true nature, and most importantly, time to prepare.
As Maya led him deeper into the crowd, Nathan felt a cold resolve settling in his chest. He would play their games, follow their rules, and smile at their insults. But this time would be different.
This time, he would make them all pay for every moment of pain they'd caused him.
The thought should have frightened him, but instead, Nathan Parker smiled for the first time since waking up in the past. Let the games begin