Chapter 38: The Pages Between Time.
The walls were silent tonight.
Not the kind of silence that soothes the soul, but the kind that tightens around your ribs like a noose, waiting for the next breath to pull.
Inside a rust-stained apartment no bigger than a cage, a man sat slouched against the peeling wall, eyes glazed, knuckles scraped raw. His name was Tokusake Ren-though no one had said that name in kindness for a long, long time.
The television buzzed softly in the background, showing a rerun of a children's show called "Clock." A man in a ridiculous clock costume danced and made kids laugh. The kind of thing you'd scoff at in adulthood.
But tonight, the man didn't scoff.
He watched.
Watched as the actor in the clock suit pointed at the camera and said, "There's still time if you believe there is." And for a moment-just a fragile, suicidal moment-Ren wanted to believe it too.
But then his gaze shifted.
To the empty bowls stacked like tombstones on the kitchen counter.
To the pay stub that could barely cover rent.
To the photo frame turned face down, still wet from yesterday's whiskey.
It was strange, the way time mutilates you.
There was a time when his hands were clean, when his mother still called him 'sweet boy, when his father smelled like oil and metal, and the world was filled with sunlit alleyways and the warmth of home-cooked rice.
That time was gone.
He remembered ignoring his mother's calls.
He remembered the funeral he skipped.
He remembered screaming at his reflection and hearing it scream back.
He had lived.
He had failed.
He had died.
Yes-died.
But death wasn't the end.
Because when his body finally collapsed under years of exhaustion, something stirred.
In the twilight of life, just before darkness could take him entirely, he saw it.
A white deer.
Standing in a field of stars.
Its eyes held no judgment.
Only a single, quiet command:
"Go."
Then came the song.
No lyrics. No rhythm. Just a presence-gentle, melancholic, forgiving.
And suddenly, he wasn't choking on regret anymore.
He was floating.
But backward.
Back to laughter.
Back to warmth.
Back to the smell of oil and cotton and home.
Back to a morning where his mother stood at his bedside yelling, "Ren! It's almost 10:30 AM!"
A life once wasted was now offered again.
And this time... he swore he would live it differently.
••••••
"Ren!"
A sweet voice called out to me, pulling me up from the depths.
"Ren! Wake up! It's time for school!"
School?
That didn't make sense.
I'm an adult. I haven't set foot in a school in years.
"Ren, wake up!"
That voice again-sharp now, laced with something warm and familiar. But who...?
My eyes fluttered open, blurry at first. The room wasn't my dingy apartment. It wasn't the place I died.
It was-home.
And standing before me was someone I thought I'd never see again.
"Ren! It's already 10:30! You'll be late!"
That voice. That scent.
That smell...
Oil.
The kind of scent that clings to your skin when your parents run a repair shop.
The smell I used to curse every day growing up.
The smell I buried beneath years of labor, failure, and silence.
Now, decades later-after death-it was... nostalgic. It was home.
"Ren!!"
I jolted upright, drenched in sweat, gasping.
And she was still there.
My mother.
The woman whose voice I rejected.
Whose calls I ignored.
Whose funeral I never attended.
"...M-Mom...?"
She laughed lightly, as if she didn't notice the tremor in my voice.
"No matter how much I try, you're impossible to wake up. Hurry, get dressed."
.
.
.
.
.
.
"I'll see you after school!"
I ran out the door with more energy than I thought possible, clutching my schoolbag like it was a lifeline.
Behind me, my father leaned near the doorway, watching.
"...Did you put something in his food yesterday?"
My father asked, eyeing my retreating form.
His wife, still folding laundry and packing customer clothes, raised an eyebrow. "Why would I do that?"
He didn't answer. He only kept staring at the road. 'He seemed... more mature,' he thought.
A week passed.
And it was just as I'd feared-no, just as I'd hoped:
I had returned.
Not metaphorically.
Not in a dream.
I was here again-my second year of high school.
From the stillness of death... to the smell of oil.
From a failed life... to a warm voice calling my name.
At the edge of oblivion, a white deer had appeared-its antlers like branches of light, its voice like wind through a silent forest.
"Go."
And in the distance, I'd heard music. I still don't know what kind it was. It wasn't grand. It wasn't loud.
But it was gentle.
Peaceful.
It told me:
This isn't the end.
And it wasn't.
I've been given a second chance.
I don't know why I'm here. I don't know who or what sent me back.
But if fate is the reason I died-then maybe it's also the reason I'm alive now.
This time... I won't waste it.
.
.
.
.
.
The voice faded.
The roll call began. Names were read. Hands raised.
Laughter echoed.
But I barely heard any of it.
I stared blankly at my desk, hand resting over the faint scratch I once carved into the surface during a boring history lecture.
It was still here.
Proof I hadn't imagined any of this.
The scent of chalk and wood polish.
The sound of pens clicking.
The murmur of half-awake teenagers trying to sound interested in being alive.
All of it pulled at me-like strings on a puppet, asking me to dance the way I once did.
To be part of this world again.
But I wasn't sure I could.
My eyes drifted to the window.
Beyond it, the sky was clear. Clouds like brushstrokes.
The kind of weather that made kids ditch class to get lost in the streets, chase each other through alleyways, climb rooftops they weren't supposed to.
There was a time I wanted that.
Not just the freedom-but the feeling of being young.
I missed it.
I missed the stupid things.
The all-nighters for entrance exams.
Sneaking snacks into the library.
Falling in love with someone for no reason except a smile.
Failing a test and laughing like the world wasn't ending.
But now-
Now I knew how fragile it all was.
I'd seen too much.
I'd lived too long in that other life.
And I'd died carrying more regret than any man should be allowed.
So what should I do now?
Should I spend my days revising for the right exams?
Should I memorize stock trends, tech patents, business mergers before they even happen?
Or-
Should I play catch with the boy who cried last week after gym class?
Should I say yes when someone asks me to hang out, even if it's just for ice cream and dumb gacha pulls?
Should I let myself live?
〔You can't be both,〕a voice inside me whispered.
〔You can't be a weary time-worn veteran and also a teenage boy.〕
But maybe...
Maybe that was the punishment of being sent back.
To feel everything twice.
To carry the weight of a life that no one else remembers.
To sit in the middle of it all, watching kids worry about pop quizzes, while I wonder which company is going to rise and fall before they even graduate.
Maybe the real test isn't knowing what will happen.
Maybe it's choosing what matters.
The teacher continued with roll call, making dumb puns, trying to make the class laugh.
Some groaned.
Some giggled.
Even she smiled.
And that was when I noticed it-
the tiniest sign.
My pen.
I'd been holding it so tight that my knuckles were white.
But now, without realizing it, I let it go.
It dropped softly onto the desk.
Not a heavy sound.
But to me, it echoed.
Maybe...
I didn't have to decide right now.
Maybe I could take this one day at a time.
Be quiet when I needed.
Speak when I felt ready.
Laugh when it hurt.
Cry when no one was looking.
Maybe that was enough.
The bell rang.
The class stood.
Chairs scraped the floor.
Books closed.
Voices rose.
I remained seated, staring out the window again.
In my past life, I never sat near the window.
In this life-I chose the seat on purpose.
Because maybe this time, I'd let myself look outside more.
Maybe this time, I'd open the window before it was too late.