San Diego — August 2001
The smell reached him before the memory did.
Warm pancakes, sizzling on a buttered pan. Maple syrup heating in a small pot the way his mother always used to prepare it. A hint of vanilla. Something so familiar it pulled at him like a string wrapped around his ribs.
Ethan stood in the doorway of the kitchen, frozen.
His mother — younger, healthier, her hair darker and longer — hummed off-key while flipping pancakes. The sunlight through the window caught in her hair. Her movements were casual, unthinking, but to Ethan they were sacred. A ritual he thought he'd never witness again.
His father sat at the table wearing the same ugly plaid bathrobe he had sworn for years he would replace but never did. In his hands was a physical newspaper, the pages rustling every time he turned them. Not an iPad. Not a phone. A real newspaper. Ethan had forgotten how loud those pages were, how big they seemed in his father's hands.
He swallowed hard, standing like a ghost in the hallway.
"You gonna come in, or just stare at us like we're museum exhibits?" his father said without looking up.
Ethan's breath shook. He forced himself forward, every step heavy with emotion. "Morning," he said softly.
His father glanced up over his glasses. "Well, that's dramatic." He folded the paper, peering at Ethan fully. "You alright, kiddo? You look… different."
Different.
If only he knew.
His mother turned from the stove with a bright smile. "Sit, sweetheart. You're just in time."
Ethan sat slowly, as if afraid the chair might vanish beneath him. He stared at his mother as she slid a plate in front of him, steam curling from the stack of pancakes.
"Here you go," she said. "Your favourite."
He stared at the food. At the golden edges, the melting butter, the syrup dripping down the side. It was too much. Too familiar. Too precious.
His chest tightened.
His throat burned.
"Mom," he whispered, voice trembling. "Thank you."
She paused. That word — Mom — carried so much weight he couldn't hide it. Like he had packed twenty years of regret, longing, and grief into a single syllable.
She blinked and reached out, touching his cheek like he was five years old again. "Of course, baby. You didn't sleep well, did you? You look pale."
He forced a shaky laugh. "Yeah. Rough night."
His father snorted. "Probably stayed up watching those dumb teen dramas again. I told you, those shows'll rot your brain."
Ethan almost laughed for real.
His father's teasing hadn't changed.
His mother sat down across from him, pouring coffee into her favourite pink mug. The one with a faded gold rim. She always refused to replace it even after it chipped.
Ethan took a bite of the pancake.
And nearly cried.
It tasted exactly the same.
Warm. Soft. Sweet.
Like childhood. Like comfort. Like home.
He closed his eyes, letting the flavours wrap around him like a blanket. He'd lived off discount ramen and stale coffee for most of his late 20s. This felt like a gift.
"You sure you're okay?" his mother asked again, voice gentle. "You're being very quiet."
He opened his eyes and forced a smile that hurt his face. "I'm just… thinking."
"About what?" his father asked, flipping another page.
"About… the future," Ethan said. The truth slipped out of him like a confession.
His father gave a firm nod. "Good. A man your age should think about that. Senior year starts in a few weeks. Maybe you should start thinking about college."
If only he knew.
Ethan hesitated, then said, "I'm thinking about… acting."
His father groaned. "We talked about this—"
"But he's talented," his mother cut in, smiling encouragingly. "You've always said he has good instincts."
"He has good instincts for fixing computers," his father muttered.
Ethan smiled faintly. Nothing had changed. Not even the rhythm of their disagreements.
But his mother leaned forward, voice soft. "If acting is what you want, sweetie… You should try. You're young. You have time."
Time.
The word hit him like a punch.
He had time again.
In his first life, time had slipped through his fingers like sand. He'd wasted his twenties. He'd hesitated. He'd been afraid. He'd waited for opportunities instead of grabbing them.
Not this time.
He took a deep breath. "I'm going to an acting workshop today."
His mother beamed. "Oh! That's wonderful!"
His father looked skeptical, but after a moment, he sighed. "Well. If you're gonna do it, at least do it properly this time."
Ethan froze.
"Properly?"
His father nodded. "Last time you quit the workshop after a month."
That was true.
He had forgotten.
He had failed before he even started.
His mother touched his hand gently. "Give it a real try this time."
He blinked hard. "Yeah," he whispered. "I will."
His parents resumed their morning routine — his father complaining about traffic, his mother humming as she washed dishes.
It felt normal.
Too normal.
Too perfect.
And Ethan felt a sudden ache in his chest.
A fear he didn't want to acknowledge.
What if he messed this up?
What if he ruined this life, too?
He pushed the thought away and stood up. "I'll be back later."
"Have fun," his mother said warmly.
His father pointed his fork at him without looking up. "Don't crash the car."
Ethan stared at them one more time — the kitchen bathed in soft sunlight, the life he had lost now miraculously restored. A single tear slid down his cheek before he could stop it.
This time…
He would not take any of this for granted.
He stepped outside into the August heat, breathing in the scent of cut grass and ocean air. Kids rode their bikes down the street. Neighbours watered lawns. The world moved exactly as it had at the start of the century.
His second life had begun.
And it felt overwhelming.
Terrifying.
Beautiful.
Impossible.
But as he walked toward his car — his old, beat-up 1995 Toyota — he whispered the promise he knew he had to keep:
"This time… I won't waste it."
Ethan gripped the steering wheel tightly.
The sun glared through the windshield.
The world felt both familiar and brand new.
He took a breath, steadying himself.
Next stop:
San Diego Community Theatre.
Next stop:
The first choice in life, he refused to mess up again.