Ichigo Kurosaki's eyes flickered open to the sight of a morning sky tinged with pink and blue hues. For a moment, he felt that surge of disorientation, a sense that something was off. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair, and blinked.

The room around him was unfamiliar, yet comfortable in a strange way, as if he'd always belonged here. A small desk sat across from his bed, covered in textbooks and notes, and a poster of a local rock band hung by the door. He took a deep breath, a peculiar feeling settling in his chest. Was this… home?

A voice broke his thoughts. "Ichigo! You're going to be late for school if you don't hurry!"

He frowned, that voice… it wasn't his old man's. It was different. More motherly, gentle.

"Yeah, I'm coming!" he called back, his voice sounding odd to his own ears, lighter, younger even. It was as if he'd gone back in time. The mirror above his dresser reflected his image back at him—a version of himself he'd barely recognized, lacking the scars and hardened gaze of a seasoned fighter.

Grabbing his bag, he headed downstairs, taking in the sight of a small, warm kitchen where a woman stood by the stove, her back turned to him. She wore an apron, her hair tucked neatly, and as she turned, Ichigo felt a pang in his chest, almost a memory.

"You'd better eat quickly, Ichigo," she said with a soft smile, setting a plate down in front of him. "You have a big day at school, don't you?"

Ichigo nodded, biting into his breakfast but barely tasting it, his mind racing with fragmented images—friends, battles, a sense of duty. Memories that seemed almost real yet fleeting. But all he knew now was that his name was Ichigo, and he had a normal life to live.