Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The clock on the wall sounded louder than usual.
Jay opened his eyes to the soft light spilling through the thin curtains. For a moment, he did not move. He just stared at the faint glow painting the ceiling, trying to remember whether this was dream or routine.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The alarm had not even rung yet. That, somehow, felt suspicious.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
He turned his head. 6:29 a.m. The alarm was set for 6:30. He had beaten it by a single minute.
"Great," he muttered, voice dry and hoarse. "Even my sleep schedule is competitive now."
brrring.
brrring.
brrring.
The clock answered by ringing anyway.
brrring.
brrring.
brrring.
Jay groaned, slapped the alarm, and rolled over onto his back. The blanket felt too warm, his pillow too soft. Everything was too normal.
For someone who had once lived through broken timelines, collapsing dreamworlds, and divine systems — the quiet hum of a ceiling fan felt almost alien.
Still, the body remembered what the mind doubted. He sat up, rubbed his face, and looked around the room.
The same small wooden desk.
The same half-open window.
The same cheap poster of a random band he didn't even like.
And that uniform — folded neatly on the chair.
His new school uniform.
"First day of high school," he murmured. "Again."
---
The morning unfolded with the lazy rhythm of déjà vu.
He brushed his teeth. Washed his face. Watched the toothpaste foam swirl down the drain like a tiny galaxy before vanishing. He found himself staring at it longer than usual.
The boy in the mirror looked the same — same messy black hair, same half-lidded eyes that always looked one thought away from drifting off. Yet something inside him itched.
Like a book he'd read before, but could not recall the ending to.
He tried to shrug it off.
Breakfast came next — simple toast, an egg, and milk. His mom's voice from the kitchen sounded warm and casual. The kind of sound you never realize you missed until it's gone.
"Jay! You'll be late if you keep spacing out like that."
"Yeah, yeah," he replied, sipping his milk.
She leaned over the counter. "You don't look nervous at all. Most kids are a mess on their first day."
Jay smiled faintly. "Guess I've been through worse."
"Hmm?"
"Nothing. Just… trying to sound cool."
She laughed, and the sound filled the room with life.
---
He tied his shoes slowly, listening to the world outside waking up — cars rolling by, birds chirping, some distant dog barking like it was personally offended by the concept of morning.
He stepped out the door and breathed in the crisp air.
It smelled of rain that never came.
His street was the same quiet stretch of suburban monotony — identical houses, trimmed lawns, a faint smell of detergent from someone's laundry. Yet something about the light felt different. Softer. More awake than usual.
As he walked, he caught himself counting steps. Then seconds. Then breaths.
There was comfort in rhythm.
Even if he didn't know why it mattered so much.
---
The high school gates came into view — big, clean, and annoyingly cheerful. The banner above the entrance said: Welcome, First Years!
Jay exhaled slowly.
He didn't remember enrolling here.
Didn't remember choosing this uniform.
Didn't even remember how his last day ended before he woke up to this.
Yet everyone around him moved like it was normal.
Students laughing, adjusting ties, chatting about teachers. Someone shouted about losing their student ID, another girl squealed about running into her middle school crush.
Jay stood at the gate for a moment, letting the noise wash over him.
It was too vivid to be a dream.
Too ordinary to be magic.
He walked inside.
---
Classes began like every cliché ever written. The teacher did introductions, attendance, polite laughter about the "start of a new chapter."
Jay wrote his name mechanically on the board.
Jay Arkwell.
No one blinked.
No one questioned it.
The same name he'd used before. The same handwriting. The same tone when he said it aloud.
It echoed in his chest like a secret.
During lunch, he sat beneath a tree at the corner of the courtyard — not because he was antisocial, but because he couldn't bring himself to join a world that didn't feel entirely real.
He watched leaves fall. Listened to chatter. Tried to feel the pulse of life around him.
But it was like looking at a painting. Beautiful, still, slightly unreal.
---
When the final bell rang, he packed up his bag and started walking home. The streets glowed orange under the sunset. Kids rode bicycles, shop owners pulled down shutters, the faint smell of street food filled the air.
Everything was alive.
But every sound carried a faint echo, like déjà vu replayed through a dream.
And then — as he turned the last corner toward home — he stopped.
There, in the reflection of a puddle, he saw it.
His face.
Same as ever.
But for a split second, behind that reflection, another image flickered — a dim afterimage of a world made of broken light and infinite skies.
He blinked. It was gone.
---
That night, Jay lay in bed, eyes open to the ceiling.
No magic. No system interface. No glowing panels or gods whispering in his head.
Just quiet.
And yet… deep down, something remembered.
He could not explain how he knew, but this wasn't his first beginning. He'd lived through another world — maybe many. Fought, wandered, joked, cried — and somehow, for reasons unknown, had been reborn here.
The same first name.
The same last name.
But a completely different world.
He turned onto his side, staring at the wall.
What was the purpose? Was this reincarnation a gift or a punishment? A continuation or a reset?
He did not know.
All he knew was that everything felt both painfully familiar and strangely foreign.
He reached toward the desk, where his phone blinked with the time — 10:03 p.m.
"Guess I will find out," he whispered.
Outside, the night wind brushed against the window, soft and distant. The world turned quietly.
And Jay Arkwell closed his eyes — half afraid, half curious — about what he might remember next time he woke.