The backyard shimmered under an afternoon sun that looked almost too perfect to be real. The kind of light that only exists in memories.
Children bounced inside a bright blue and yellow castle, their laughter rising and falling like waves. The sound was warm, familiar, and distant all at once. I stood off to the side, watching the younger versions of my friends tumble and collide in harmless chaos. The air smelled like grass, rubber, and birthday cake frosting.
Then Mom's voice called out from the porch—steady, cheerful, the same tone she used when everything still felt simple. "Alright, kids, time for cake!"
The herd of children scattered from the bouncy castle and ran inside, their shoes thumping on the deck. My younger self—seven, maybe eight years old—was the last to climb out. He turned toward her, eyes bright, and said, "Thanks, Mommy."
That one word hit harder than it should have.
It wasn't just a memory; it was a reminder. A reminder of a time before Sentinel Solutions, before powers and timelines and the endless noise inside my head.
I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. It was like watching a life that used to belong to someone else.
I tried to piece together why I was seeing this—what this meant. Maybe it was something else.
Either way, I stood there, watching my past self blow out candles, surrounded by people who no longer remembered that day either.
Then, without warning, the world shifted.
The backyard melted away, colors smearing together until they formed new walls, new light, new air. I blinked, and suddenly I was standing in the tiled hallway of my old school.
Fifth grade.
The smell of disinfectant and pencil shavings hit me all at once. Lockers lined both sides of the hall. Ten-year-old me walked out of the restroom, head down, backpack hanging halfway open.
Three boys trailed behind him.
"Hey, freak," the one in front said.
Younger me didn't turn around. "I don't want any problems," he muttered, voice small.
The frontman smirked. "Too bad. Boys—take him."
The two behind him grabbed me by the arms, dragging me backward through the restroom door. The sound of their shoes squeaked against the floor tiles, echoing off the cold walls.
They tossed me onto the ground, and one of them started filling a plastic trash bag with sink water. The frontman held my shoulders down, grinning the whole time. When the bag was full, they dumped it over me, laughing as the cold water hit my face.
Then they ran.
Just like that—gone.
Younger me backed into a corner, shivering, water dripping from his hair and sleeves, trying not to make a sound. But I could feel it all—the humiliation, the confusion, the way his heart sank because part of him believed he might deserve it.
I knelt beside him. My knees pressed into the wet floor, and for a second, I wasn't sure if he could see me. But then his head lifted, and our eyes met.
He looked exhausted.
"Why did they do this to us?" he asked. His voice was strange—layered, echoing, like more than one version of me was speaking through him.
I swallowed hard. "I don't know," I said. And I meant it.
The restroom lights flickered, and then everything fell into darkness.
When my eyes opened again, I was standing on familiar grass. Warm wind brushed across my face. The sound of water lapping against the shore reached my ears before I even turned my head.
The lake party.
Only this time, I wasn't watching from outside the memory. I was the memory. I could feel the summer heat again, the static in the air, the laughter of friends who had no idea what was coming.
For the first time since losing the Nexus, I realized—I wasn't just reliving my past.
I was being shown it