March 14, 1972
At nearly four years old, Eric Coppola sat on the living-room sofa with the uneasy stillness of someone far older than his body allowed. A baby girl rested in his arm—Sofia—small fingers curled against his sleeve, breathing softly as if the world had already promised her safety. Eric wore a loose, ordinary outfit, the kind chosen without thought. Nothing about him looked extraordinary.
But nothing about him was ordinary.
"Why does my life suck?" he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. Then, as if correcting himself, he added, "Actually… it's not bad. It's pretty good to be here."
The thought surprised him. It always did.
It had been almost four years since he had reincarnated into this world—or rather, returned to it. Not reborn forward in time, but displaced backward, to 1968. An anomaly. A contradiction that walked, breathed, and learned to speak again. The idea amused him, even comforted him. If the universe had made a mistake, then maybe he wasn't required to make sense.
"Let's go, kids."
The voice came from the other room, firm and familiar.
"Eric—pick up Sofia and give her to your mother."
Eric stood carefully, lifting the baby with practiced gentleness and placing her into his mother's arms. Eleanor smiled at him, unaware of the weight behind his eyes.
Eric Coppola.
That was his name now. The name of the anomaly.
Before this life—before Eric—there had been someone else. Someone who loved films obsessively, who devoured cinema not as entertainment but as language. Someone who dreamed of directing, of studying at USC's School of Cinematic Arts, of understanding how stories reshaped reality.
My real name is…
The thought dissolved before it could finish.
His memories were vivid yet unreachable, like reflections trapped behind fogged glass. Lists, fragments, sensations—everywhere and nowhere. Eric asked himself the same question over and over again, but the answer never surfaced. Whatever he had been before, Eric could never fully remember it.
The family of five climbed into the car and drove through the afternoon light until they stopped in front of a large, unfamiliar building. Inside, Eric noticed rows of seats descending toward a massive white screen. The air felt charged, heavy with expectation.
A movie theater.
"Francis," a man said sharply as he approached Eric's father, "why did you bring children to an R-rated movie?"
"Relax, Ruddy," Francis replied, laughing easily. "They'll be asleep five minutes after it starts."
People continued to filter in, their whispers overlapping like static. Eric watched them all—their faces, their habits, the strange ceremony of adults preparing to watch shadows move on a wall.
Then the lights dimmed.
Color burst onto the screen. Mountains rose. Stars shimmered. Eric leaned forward, transfixed.
"Paramount Pictures," he whispered when the logo appeared.
To his left, his sister had already fallen asleep. To his right, his mother sat quietly. Eleanor noticed his attention and patted her legs.
"Want to watch the film?" she asked.
Eric climbed onto her lap. She leaned close and whispered, almost conspiratorially, "Do you know your father made this movie? It's going to be wonderful."
"Huh?" Eric said, startled. "Father made this?"
She smiled. "Just watch. It's starting."
The music began—slow, heavy, inevitable. A nearly bald man in a black-and-white suit appeared on screen and began to speak.
And something inside Eric collapsed.
One word rose unbidden, echoing through his mind like a verdict.
The Godfather.
His eyes shut abruptly, as if a switch had been flipped. Memories, identity, awareness—everything folded inward. Thought dissolved. Time fractured.
"Oh," Eleanor murmured, gently easing him back into his seat, "I guess children really aren't meant for this movie. Better he sleeps. I wouldn't know how to explain it to Francis if Eric watched the whole thing."
But Eric was not sleeping.
Inside his mind, he stood surrounded by mirrors—countless reflections stretching into infinity. One by one, they shattered. Glass tore into his skin, drawing blood, but he did not scream. He endured. This was his last option. His only one.
The broken shards began to move.
They gathered, pulling together, reforming into a single, towering mirror.
And in it, Eric saw a boy—older than he was now—staring back at him from the screen.