I wake up choking—not on water, but on memory. The smell of burnt toast fills the kitchen, just like always. My hands are small again. Too small. Nine years old, standing barefoot on linoleum, watching my father slam his coffee cup down without saying grace.\n\nThis isn’t possible. I died last night—at forty-three, alone in a hospital bed, heart shattered more by silence than disease. And yet… I remember everything. The beatings disguised as discipline. The birthdays erased. The way Mom looked away when I cried.\n\nThen the voice echoes in my skull: You get one turn back. Change what you can. Or repeat forever.\n\nDad turns toward me, eyes sharp. "Why are you just standing there?"

I have three seconds to decide: obey like before, run now while he’s distracted, or speak up—say something different for once.