Thomas stood frozen in front of the mirror, unable to tear his eyes away from the face staring back at him. It wasn't just the shock of seeing himself so young—it was the weight of everything tied to that face. Once, it had carried dreams of greatness, confidence, and an unshakable belief that the world was his to conquer. Yet, in his first life, those dreams had slipped through his fingers.
He raised a hand, brushing his smooth jawline, marveling at the absence of the sagging skin and gray stubble that had come to define his later years. His fingers traced his cheekbones—high and full—once a source of admiration, but later a grim reminder of how life had worn him down.
The reflection wasn't just younger; it was a confrontation. This was the face of a man who had stood at the crossroads of potential and recklessness, a man who had chosen poorly time and again until he met a lonely end in a cramped, lifeless apartment.
"I'm really here," Thomas whispered, his voice quivering as though speaking the words aloud might shatter the fragile reality around him.
Leaning closer to the mirror, he watched his breath momentarily fog the glass. His dark eyes sparkled with a vibrance he had long forgotten. They were wide, alert, and free of the cloud of regret that had dulled them for so many years. The man in the mirror seemed invincible, unaware of the pain and mistakes waiting in another timeline.
"You were so naïve," he murmured to his younger self. "So sure you had time to fix everything. So arrogant, thinking life owed you more."
But now, time had folded in on itself. Life had handed him the unimaginable—a second chance.
The small bathroom, with its tiled walls and chipped sink, felt stifling as memories came rushing back. He remembered standing in this very spot once before, preparing for a job interview he never bothered to attend. Back then, he had stared into this same mirror, imagining a future full of ambition and success.
Instead, he had chosen the easier path. The failed business venture, the drowning debt, the lure of gambling—it all came flooding back. He saw himself hunched over poker tables and slot machines, the artificial lights glaring in his eyes as he clung to a dream that was slipping further and further away.
Thomas shook his head, as if trying to shake off the ghost of that man. He couldn't let that cycle repeat. The face staring back at him wasn't just a reminder of the past—it was a challenge.
His gaze dropped to his hands. They were steady and strong, unmarred by the tremors of old age or the strain of years of labor. He flexed his fingers, feeling the strength in them. These were the hands of a man capable of creating something real, something lasting.
His thoughts drifted to his mother, and his chest tightened. She had believed in him longer than anyone, even as he spiraled into failure. She had stood by him, her faith unwavering, even when he gave her every reason to let go.
"You deserved better," he whispered, his throat thick with guilt. "But I promise you—I won't waste this chance."
Thomas straightened his back, his reflection mimicking the motion. He studied the younger man in the mirror, a mixture of awe and resolve in his eyes. This man didn't yet bear the scars of failure or the weight of regret. This man had a chance—a blank slate waiting to be filled with better decisions, stronger choices, and a life worthy of his mother's sacrifices.
He took a deep breath and splashed cold water on his face, the icy shock pulling him into the present. As droplets slid down his cheeks, he looked at his reflection again, this time with steady determination.
"This is my chance," he said aloud, his voice firm and sure. "And I'm not going to waste it."
For the first time in decades, Thomas felt a flicker of pride as he looked at himself. The mirror no longer reflected a man consumed by regret—it reflected a man ready to rewrite his story.