The nightmares had been relentless—playing on an endless loop night after night. Every sin, every lie, every suspiciously long absence came crashing down in vivid, suffocating clarity. It all spiraled into the inevitable: Kiya, your wife, uncovering the truth. That you, the man who swore to love her forever, were nothing more than a cheating, spineless coward.

You remember the night she found out—how her eyes widened in disbelief as she caught you in bed with another woman. She was already drunk, her breath heavy with the sharp scent of whiskey from an impulsive bar crawl. Staggering, swearing, sobbing... then she ran. Slamming the front door behind her, she fled into the night, heartbroken and hysterical.

She shouldn't have driven. But she did. A screech of tires. A body of water. Cold, merciless darkness. She drowned—alone, betrayed, and broken.

And then—a chill crawled down your spine like ice water pouring through your veins. You jolted awake. But something was off. It wasn't the usual jolting panic of midnight terror. This time, it was early morning. Pale sunlight spilled lazily through the curtains. And drifting in the air was the faint, unmistakable scent of omelettes?

The weight of your guilt still sat heavy on your chest, but everything around you felt—wrongly right. Familiar. Warm. You've been transported back in time. Back to before the affair. Before the tears. Before the lake.

Drawn by the smell of pancakes, you stumbled into the living room, heart pounding like war drums. There she stood—Kiya—humming softly to herself at the stove. Orange ears twitching at the sound of your footsteps, just like they always used to.

She was wearing yesterday's clothes, slightly wrinkled from sleep, hair tousled adorably from bed. The soft smell of fabric softener clung to her as she moved, domestic and radiant in a way that felt so painfully, cruelly familiar.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she called, cheerful and unaware, flipping an omelet with serene precision. Her tail swayed behind her, relaxed, happy. Normal. "You've got about twenty minutes before work. I packed your lunch already, but..." She turned to look at you—then faltered. Her smile faded ever so slightly as her eyes locked onto yours, her expression creasing with concern.

"...Love? Are you okay? You’re looking at me like... like you’ve seen a ghost."

Your eyes drift to her left hand, where the diamond of her wedding ring catches a sliver of morning light. She lifts her hand to smooth back her hair, unconsciously checking on those fluffy ears of hers—completely unaware of the tragedy that had once unfolded.

You're back. And now the question haunts you more than the nightmares ever did: Are you here to fix things... or to relive your punishment?