The walk home should've been ordinary.
It was the kind of late afternoon where the sun made everything look kinder than it had any right to. Students spilled out of Meridian High in noisy groups, uniforms rumpled, energy shifting from "academic suffering" to "freedom, snacks, and questionable decisions."
Kael walked with Lyra and Bram for a while, the three of them threaded into the flow like they'd always belonged there.
Bram talked nonstop about Culinary Club.
"So we're thinking," Bram said, hands animated, "we can totally weaponize food. Like—sell cookies during exam week. Bribe people for notes. Corner the market on comfort."
Lyra shot him a look. "That's not weaponizing. That's scamming."
Bram's eyes shone. "Exactly."
Kael listened with half his attention.
The other half was elsewhere—already ahead, like it always had been.
He'd joined Culinary Club. He'd fed Selene Arcos twice in one day, which was either destiny or a poor life choice. He'd seen Nari draw him like she'd been waiting for him to exist.
It should've been enough for one day.
But the thought that sat in Kael's skull didn't care about romance or clubs or the warmth in a kitchen.
My father's accident.
In his first life, it had happened so suddenly that the "before" felt fake afterward. A normal day that became a dividing line: everything on one side was childhood, everything on the other was debt and hospital corridors and Kael becoming the kind of person who didn't laugh unless it had a purpose.
He couldn't remember the exact date.
It's not that he didn't remember it, but to escape from its aftereffects he did everything to forget it, that escape was comforting in his previous life but now?
That scared him.
He remembered the call. The panic. The fluorescent lights.
He remembered being sixteen and learning, in one instant, that the world could take your family apart without asking permission.
Kael's fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.
If he couldn't remember the date, he could still remember the cause.
Work.
His father had been commuting to a site. There had been an equipment failure—something industrial, preventable, stupid. A chain reaction of "someone should've checked" until someone got hurt.
Kael's jaw clenched.
This time, someone would check.
Bram peeled off toward a corner store with a shout about "urgent snack acquisition." Lyra walked a few more blocks with Kael, her pace unhurried.
She glanced at him sideways. "You're quiet."
Kael answered automatically, "I'm always quiet."
Lyra snorted. "No, you're usually annoying."
Kael's mouth twitched. "Thank you."
Lyra hesitated, then asked, "Did something happen today?"
Kael's brain supplied a list.
A miracle. A dead man waking up. A kitchen that smelled like home. A club that might become his life. A childhood friend who he didn't get rid off. A school idol he never talked to was now eating his food. A quiet girl drawing him with soft eyes.
Also: the creeping terror that tomorrow might steal everything again.
He chose sarcasm, because it was safer. "I joined a club. Clearly I'm spiraling."
Lyra didn't smile this time. She slowed slightly. "Kael."
There was that tone again—like Mira earlier. Not anger. Not teasing. Worry.
Kael hated it.
He glanced ahead and saw his street coming up. "I'm fine."
Lyra stopped walking.
Kael took two steps before realizing she wasn't beside him anymore. He stopped and turned.
Lyra stood in the middle of the sidewalk, bag strap in her hand, eyes narrowed like she'd decided something.
"You said that weird thing this morning," she said. "About killing yourself. Metaphorically."
Kael's stomach dipped.
Lyra continued, voice low. "And you looked… wrong. Not sick. Just—wrong."
Kael's throat tightened. He wanted to deflect, to joke, to toss a one-liner and run.
But in his last life, he'd run until there was nowhere left to run.
So he stayed.
"I'm just tired," Kael said carefully.
Lyra searched his face like she didn't trust the words. "Tired from what?"
Kael almost answered honestly.
From dying.
From missing you.
From drowning in money and calling it a life.
Instead he said, "From existing. Bram says I should try it more often."
Lyra's lips pressed together. She didn't laugh, but her shoulders eased a fraction—like she'd accept the joke as a temporary bridge.
"Okay," she said finally. "But if you do something stupid, I'll haunt you."
Kael blinked. "That's very comforting."
Lyra turned and started walking again, as if she hadn't just threatened him with affection. "Good. Be comforted."
Kael followed her to the corner where their paths split.
Lyra paused once more. "See you tomorrow."
Kael nodded. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
Lyra left.
Kael stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the empty sidewalk where she'd been.
He hadn't realized how much he'd missed someone caring enough to be annoying.
He turned and walked home.
Mira's voice floated from inside the house before he even opened the door.
"Kael? Take your shoes off properly! You track dirt like you're trying to grow a garden indoors!"
Kael's mouth curved despite himself. "Hello to you too."
He entered, took his shoes off properly, and set his bag down.
The house smelled like dinner in progress—something simmering, something frying. Brim's nails clicked on the floor as the dog trotted toward him with the dignity of a guard who wanted payment.
Brim looked up at Kael's bag, then at Kael, then at Kael's hands.
Where is the tribute?
Kael sighed and crouched. "I didn't steal you food today."
Brim whined like Kael had personally betrayed the concept of loyalty.
Kael patted his head. "I'll make it up to you."
Brim accepted this promise like it was legally binding.
Senn's voice came from the living room. "Hyung! You're home! Did you get confessed to by a bunch of girls?"
Kael closed his eyes for one second. "No."
Senn appeared, still in uniform, tie loosened, hair chaos incarnate. "Good. Because then you'd forget to help me with homework."
Kael stared. "That's your concern?"
Senn nodded earnestly. "Yes. Girls are dangerous."
Kael muttered, "That's one of the few things you've ever said that might actually be true."
Mira called from the kitchen, "Senn, don't bother your brother the moment he walks in!"
Senn shouted back, "It's not bothering! It's bonding!"
Kael walked into the kitchen.
Mira stood over the stove, stirring a pot with steady patience. She glanced at him. "How was school?"
Kael hesitated.
How do you answer that when you've already lived the consequences of every choice you're about to make?
"It was…" He searched for a safe word. "Eventful."
Mira hummed. "That usually means Bram did something."
Kael's mouth twitched. "Bram exists and also asks me to do it too."
Mira smiled briefly, then pointed at the counter. "Wash your hands and taste this. Tell me if it needs more salt."
Kael froze.
Taste this.
In his last life, nobody asked him things like that, after he distanced himself. People asked him to approve budgets, review strategies, sign papers. Taste this was a domestic intimacy he'd forgotten existed.
He washed his hands.
Mira handed him a spoon. He tasted the broth.
It was good. Warm, layered, comforting. Not restaurant-level complexity. Home-level love.
"It's good," Kael said quietly.
Mira watched him closely. "Just good?"
Kael met her eyes.
Something twisted in his chest.
He could tell her. He could say: I missed this so much it killed me.
Instead he lifted an eyebrow, forcing his usual tone. "Do you want me to cry and write poetry about it?"
Mira snorted. "No. I want you to eat dinner and stop acting like you're carrying the planet on your shoulders."
Kael's jaw tightened involuntarily.
Mira's eyes softened. "Kael."
The way she said his name made him feel sixteen in the worst way—caught, exposed.
"I'm fine," Kael said.
Mira didn't argue. She just turned back to the stove and said, like it was casual, "Your dad's working late today. He'll be home after sunset."
Kael's entire body went still.
His dad.
Working late.
The timeline in Kael's head lurched.
In his first life, the accident had happened during a late shift period—overtime, site work, safety corners cut because money mattered more than care.
Kael's stomach dropped.
He forced his voice to stay even. "Where is he working?"
Mira glanced at him. "The Kestel site, I think. They're doing maintenance on one of the transport lifts."
Kael's blood ran cold.
Transport lift.
That phrase detonated a memory—fragmented, sharp. A news report. A supervisor's apology. The word malfunction.
Kael set the spoon down too fast. It clinked against the counter.
Mira turned, eyebrows lifting. "Kael? What's wrong?"
Kael's mind ran numbers at the speed of panic.
If the accident happened today—
No.
Not today.
It can't be today.
He couldn't trust that. He couldn't gamble his family on "probably."
"I need to go," Kael said.
Mira stared. "Go where?"
Kael grabbed his bag. "To—outside. I'll be back."
Mira's voice sharpened. "Kael, dinner is almost ready. Where are you going all of a sudden?"
Kael's heart hammered.
He couldn't tell her. Not yet. Not without sounding insane.
His sarcasm tried to surface, but it drowned under fear.
"I forgot something," he lied, already moving.
Mira followed him to the hallway, concern rising. "Kael—"
Kael paused at the door.
He turned back just long enough to see her face—alive, real—and the thought of losing it again made his vision blur.
"I'll be back," he said, voice rougher than he intended. "I promise."
Then he left.
The evening air hit him. Cooler now. The sun sinking, casting long shadows across the street.
Kael broke into a run.
His lungs burned, but it was nothing compared to the burning in his chest.
He ran past neighbors. Past shops. Past a corner where kids played with a ball. Past the diner again—its sign flickering on, warm light inside.
He didn't stop.
His mind replayed the first life like a cruel slideshow.
Hospital corridors. Mira's tired eyes. Senn clinging to his sleeve. His father in a bed, unmoving, machines breathing for him.
Kael's feet pounded the pavement harder.
He had one chance.
Just one.
The Kestel site was on the edge of the neighborhood, fenced off, with tall structures silhouetted against the fading sky. A transport lift towered above the site like a metal skeleton, cables stretching upward.
Kael slowed near the fence, breath ragged.
Workers in safety gear moved around. Trucks idled. Lights began to flicker on as the site prepared for night work.
Kael's eyes scanned desperately.
Where is he?
Where is my father?
He spotted a familiar shape near the base of the lift—broad shoulders, steady stance, talking to another worker, helmet under his arm.
Rolan Veyrin.
Alive.
Kael's vision swam.
For a second he forgot to breathe.
Then the transport lift above them made a sound.
A metallic groan.
Kael's blood turned to ice.
The cable—one of the cables—shuddered. The lift platform jerked slightly, like something had slipped.
A worker looked up.
Another shouted.
Kael didn't think.
He vaulted the fence.
Someone yelled, "Hey!"
Kael ran toward his father, lungs screaming, heart tearing itself open.
Rolan turned, startled. "Kael?"
Kael's voice came out raw, terrified, not sarcastic at all.
"Dad—MOVE!"
The lift above them lurched again.
Metal screamed.
And the future came rushing down.