Hours passed, and Jayden eventually drifted off to sleep on the couch. The steady ticking of the clock on the wall was the only sound in the room, an eerie metronome counting down the hours to a decision he still hadn't made.
His head throbbed when he opened his eyes.
"Ugh... my head's spinning," he muttered, rubbing his temples.
But something wasn't right.
This wasn't his living room. The cold wood floor was gone. So were the couch, the fireplace, and the smell of snow-dampened air. In their place was a wide green field filled with wildflowers swaying in a gentle breeze. Trees surrounded him, their leaves rustling softly in the wind. Birds chirped overhead. It was almost painfully alive.
Jayden stood slowly, scanning the area with narrowed eyes. There were no signs of civilization. No buildings. No footprints. No people.
"Did someone drug me? Kidnap me?" he said out loud, though he didn't feel afraid.
Some part of him, the part that usually flared with panic or aggression in uncertain situations, stayed quiet. It was almost peaceful.
He walked slowly through the forest, brushing aside branches and weaving between trees. The further he went, the more familiar it felt. He couldn't place it exactly—just an undercurrent of memory pulling him forward.
Then he saw it.
A massive tree stood alone at the edge of a clearing, towering over everything else. Its bark was thick and knotted with age, and high up on one of the branches, a tiny treehouse leaned slightly to one side. A swing swayed gently beneath it, creaking with each pass.
Jayden froze.
His breath caught in his throat as he approached. The ropes holding the swing were frayed, the seat worn from use, but it still held together. He touched it gently, his fingers trailing along the old wood.
He didn't say anything for a while. Then, in a single smooth motion, he crouched and leapt upward. His fingers caught the thick branch, and he pulled himself onto it with ease.
The treehouse was too small for him now. He ducked his head to peer inside but couldn't fit more than his upper body. It smelled like dust and dried leaves and memories.
A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he rested his head against the wood.
"This has to be some kind of bad joke," he said quietly.
"And what if I told you it's not?" a voice behind him replied.
Jayden reacted instantly, flipping down from the branch in a crouch and spinning toward the voice. His eyes locked onto a figure standing on the swing.
It was a boy. Thin, pale, and fragile-looking. Maybe sixteen years old. His long black hair framed a face that should have looked sickly but somehow didn't. He smiled softly, eyes calm and steady.
Jayden took a cautious step back.
"What the hell, man? Don't sneak up on me like that," he said, but his voice wavered halfway through.
"Took you long enough," the boy said.
Jayden's jaw tightened. Something about the way he spoke—his tone, his posture—gnawed at the edges of his mind.
"This can't be…"
"You're right," the boy said as he stepped off the swing and stood in front of him. "It can't be in your world. But in here, it can."
Jayden's eyes narrowed. "You're me."
The boy gave a slow nod. "More like the part of you that you left behind."
They stood there for a long moment, the silence thick between them. The older Jayden stared at the younger one, trying to reconcile the image with the man he'd become. Everything about the kid screamed vulnerability—the narrow frame, the soft voice, the calm acceptance—but there was something solid behind it. Something real.
"What do you want?" Jayden asked.
"To show you something. Something you've forgotten."
"I don't need to see anything," Jayden said, voice sharp. "We're not the same anymore. I've changed."
"Have you?" the boy asked. "Because I've been watching. You train harder, you look different, you even act tougher, but your soul is still stuck in the same place."
Jayden's fists clenched. "You don't know me."
"I am you."
"Don't pull that 'mirror of the self' crap on me," he snapped. "Whatever this is—a dream, a memory, some kind of breakdown—I don't care. I've moved on."
The boy stepped closer. "If that were true, you wouldn't still feel the way you do."
Jayden grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him forward. Their faces were inches apart now, and his voice dropped low.
"I'm not you. Not now. Not ever. So shut your mouth before I shut it for you."
The boy didn't flinch.
"If that's true," he said softly, "then prove it."
He lifted one hand—and the world around them changed.
The forest vanished.
In its place stood a lavish living room, warm with golden light filtering in through tall windows. Velvet curtains, expensive furniture, and ornate artwork covered the walls. It was the kind of setting designed to impress—not to live in.
Jayden didn't need to look twice. He knew this place. Every inch of it.
His expression hardened instantly.
"This house…" he whispered, his voice flat.
It was the home where he'd spent most of his childhood, the one shared with his mother, her second husband, and two step-siblings. It was supposed to be a safe place, but it never was. Everything about it—the fake smiles, the forced conversations, the shallow warmth—made his stomach twist.
"Why the hell would you bring me here?" he growled, turning to the younger version of himself.
The boy didn't answer immediately. He stood still, watching the doorway like he was waiting for something. Jayden followed his gaze.
Footsteps echoed.
A woman entered the room, graceful and composed, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor. Her clothes were flawless, her hair pinned tight, and her expression carried that same distant warmth she had always worn. Jayden's mother.
Jayden took a step back. He hadn't seen this face in years—not in real life, not even in his dreams.
"What are you trying to prove?" he snapped. "That I'm still broken?"
"I'm not here to confirm what I already know," the boy said. "I'm here to show you that you haven't changed. Not even a bit."