The world outside was quiet. Streetlights cast pale yellow halos on the pavement, and the occasional car passed by, its headlights briefly illuminating the interior of Ethan Graves' parked car. But inside, a storm raged.
Ethan sat in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His heart pounded—not with anger, not with sorrow, but with a dull, suffocating emptiness.
He had seen the messages. He had heard the late-night whispers, the cautious laughter on the other end of the phone. Claire, his wife of ten years, had been lying to him. And tonight, standing outside that fancy hotel downtown, he had seen the truth for himself.
His hands trembled. Not from rage—he wished he could be angry. Anger would have been easier. Instead, he felt like he was drowning in a cold, endless ocean.
He lifted his phone, staring at the last message Claire had sent him.
"Don't wait up, love. Work ran late."
Ethan let out a quiet, bitter chuckle. Work? Is that what they were calling it now?
A sharp pang struck his chest, but not from heartbreak. It was relief.
A thought had been creeping into his mind for years—an ugly, unspoken truth he refused to face. Their marriage had been dead long before tonight. He had simply been too blind, too hopeful, to admit it.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to move. His muscles felt stiff, as if his body resisted the inevitable confrontation ahead. But there was no point in delaying it any longer.
The house was exactly as he had left it.
Warm lights spilled from the living room window, painting the front porch in soft golden hues. The curtains swayed slightly from the breeze sneaking through a barely open window.
Ethan stepped inside.
The scent of lavender and vanilla filled the air—Claire's favorite candles. Everything looked the same, yet it all felt hollow now.
And then he saw her.
Claire sat curled up on the couch, a glass of wine in one hand, her phone in the other. She hadn't even noticed him come in. She was smiling.
Ethan had seen that smile before. It wasn't meant for him.
For a brief moment, he just watched her.
There was a time when that smile had been his whole world. When seeing it would fill him with warmth, with a sense of home.
But now? Now, it felt like looking at a stranger.
Taking a slow breath, he stepped forward. The soft click of his shoes against the wooden floor finally caught her attention.
Claire looked up, her blue eyes widening slightly. "Ethan! I—I didn't hear you come in."
He said nothing.
Her fingers tightened around her phone, as if she feared he had already seen what was on the screen. "You're home early," she added, her voice carefully casual.
Ethan studied her. She was beautiful, as always. Long auburn hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her delicate features were still just as captivating as the day they met.
But beauty meant nothing when the heart had already moved on.
Finally, he spoke. "How long?"
Claire stiffened. "W-What?"
His voice was calm. Empty. Too tired to be angry, too resigned to pretend.
"How long have you been seeing him?"
The blood drained from her face. She opened her mouth, then closed it. For a moment, guilt flickered in her eyes. But then she swallowed, straightened her shoulders, and let out a soft sigh.
"Ethan, I…" She hesitated, then looked away. "I didn't mean for it to happen."
A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. Didn't mean for it to happen. What a cliché.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
"You could've just told me," he said finally. "Instead of lying. Instead of pretending."
Claire flinched. "I didn't want to hurt you."
Ethan let out a slow exhale. "And yet, here we are."
She looked at him then, truly looked at him, as if seeing for the first time that he wasn't fighting. That there were no accusations, no desperate pleas.
Only quiet acceptance.
And that scared her more than anything.
"Ethan, we can talk about this—"
"No." He shook his head. "We really can't."
A single word lodged itself in his throat.
Goodbye.
For a decade, she had been his wife. His partner. His past.
But tonight, she would not be his future.
Without another word, Ethan turned and walked away, stepping out into the cold night without looking back.
The city stretched before him, bathed in neon and shadows. Ethan walked with no destination, no plan. Just a man with nothing left to lose.
At some point, he found himself in front of a small, antique shop wedged between towering buildings. The sign above the door was faded, its name unreadable.
And yet, something about it called to him.
The door creaked as he stepped inside.
Dim lighting cast long shadows across the rows of wooden shelves, each stacked with trinkets, books, and strange artifacts. The air smelled of old parchment and something else—something ancient.
At the counter, an old man sat, watching him with piercing gray eyes.
"You look like a man at a crossroads," the man said, his voice calm.
Ethan let out a breathless laugh. "More like a dead end."
The old man tilted his head. "Not quite."
He reached beneath the counter and placed something in front of Ethan.
A pocket watch.
Its surface was gold, engraved with intricate swirling patterns. But what truly caught Ethan's attention was the clock's hands.
They were ticking backward.
Ethan frowned. "What is this?"
The old man smiled. "A second chance."
The words sent a shiver down Ethan's spine.
He wanted to walk away. He really did.
And yet, his hand reached forward, fingers brushing against the watch's cool surface.
The moment he touched it, everything changed.
The world tilted. Light and shadow twisted around him. A thousand memories unraveled at once—memories that had yet to happen.
Then—darkness.
When Ethan's eyes opened again, he wasn't in the antique shop anymore.
He was somewhere else. Somewhen else.
And when he looked into the mirror, the face staring back at him was not a 32-year-old man.
It was his 18-year-old self.