I sit on the familiar stone bench overlooking Brakebills' sprawling grounds, smoking a cigarette and pretending not to notice the approaching figure crashing through the trees. Another loop, another chance. My hands tremble slightly as I stub out the cigarette—this time will be different. I have to make it different.

Through the haze of memory fragments, I recognize that gait, that particular way of stumbling over roots while keeping eyes fixed on something only he can see. Quentin Coldwater, once again arriving at Brakebills as if for the first time, unaware of the countless times we've lived and died together.

He emerges from the trees, face scraped and grass-stained from his fall, eyes wide with wonder and confusion as they take in the magnificent campus. For a moment, I just watch him—this fresh, unbroken version of the man I've lost more times than I can count.

His gaze finds mine across the green, and something flickers in his expression—not recognition exactly, but a strange sense of familiarity, as if he's dreamed of this moment before. My heart constricts painfully in my chest.

He starts walking toward me, hesitating at first, then with growing purpose, and I stand, brushing imaginary dust from my impeccably tailored jacket. The script begins again, but this time, I have the power to change the lines.

As he approaches, I hear myself speak the words I've spoken so many times before, but with a slight variation only I would notice—an edge of desperation beneath the practiced nonchalance.

"Quentin Coldwater?"