Back to 2007

Adam Quinn sat on the worn-out couch in his cramped apartment, staring at the whiskey bottle that trembled between his shaky fingers. It was past midnight, but he wasn't entirely sure what time it was. How long had he been sitting here? How long had he been drinking? It didn't matter.

He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long swig, feeling the warmth spread through his chest—but it wasn't the warmth he needed. It was just an illusion, like the neon lights in dirty alleyways—bright, but soulless.

He let out a hoarse chuckle and shook his head.

"What the hell am I doing?" he muttered under his breath.

He was forty-eight years old, and all he had now was this lonely place and memories of a life that hadn't gone the way he wanted.

It wasn't always like this. Years ago, he thought he had a chance—that he could achieve his dream of becoming a well-known singer. He wasn't the best, but he believed that persistence and hard work would make him successful. He wrote songs, tried his luck in bars, waited for the opportunity that never came.

There was a time when he at least had something that resembled stability—a wife, a small apartment, a little bit of money. And he had been happy. Or so he thought.

But he had been a fool.

His wife had grown tired of him.

At first, she tolerated his passion for music, but she never truly believed in him. She claimed to support him, but her eyes told the truth—the look of someone watching her husband chase a mirage. Over the years, her quiet disappointment turned into disdain, then into silent hatred.

Then came the moment she told him she was leaving.

"Adam, I've had enough."

He remembered how coldly she said it, how she told him she needed a real man—a man with a job, a future. It wasn't a surprise, but it still hurt. What hurt even more was that she took half of what little he had. The apartment, the small savings, even the old car he had bought years ago—it all went to her.

He didn't try to stop her.

But the worst part wasn't losing the money or even losing his wife.

It was his mother.

She was the only person who had ever truly believed in him.

When everyone else mocked him, she was always there with warm words and encouragement. But instead of appreciating her, he had treated her like a burden. Not because of her, but because of his wife—who convinced him that his mother was just an old woman who didn't understand the times, and that supporting his "money-draining" music was nothing more than a foolish dream.

In her final days, he barely visited her.

Then she died.

Cancer ate away at her slowly, and he hadn't had the money to save her. The doctors told him that surgery could have given her a chance, but it was expensive. If he had focused on something more practical, if he hadn't wasted his life chasing the impossible, maybe she would still be alive.

He wished he could go back in time.

Not to change his future—he no longer cared about music or success.

But just to be with her.

To see her smile, to hear her voice, to ask for her forgiveness for being a fool who didn't appreciate her as he should have.

But that was impossible, wasn't it?

The cold air slapped his face.

He walked aimlessly, letting his feet take him wherever they wanted. The streets were nearly empty, except for a few drunks and homeless people huddled under awnings. The dim streetlights flickered, and the rain made the pavement shine as if coated in oil.

He could hear the laughter of a group of young people at the corner of a nightclub. Loud electronic music blasted from inside, bodies swaying to the beat—a world so far from his own.

He stood there for a moment, watching in silence.

This wasn't his place. It never had been.

He kept walking, his steps slightly unsteady, but he didn't stop. At the intersection, the traffic light turned red, but he didn't notice. Or maybe he just didn't care.

Then suddenly, there was a blinding light.

Brakes screeched.

An impact.

Darkness.

—

When he opened his eyes, the light was too bright.

He shut them quickly, then slowly reopened them, adjusting to the world around him. A white ceiling. The steady beep of a heart monitor. The sharp smell of disinfectant.

A hospital?

His head throbbed, and when he tried to lift his hand, he felt the prick of IV needles in his arm.

Then he heard the voice.

A voice he knew. A voice he thought he would never hear again.

"Adam? Sweetheart, are you okay?"

His body froze.

He turned his head slowly, his eyes widening.

His mother.

But she wasn't the sick woman he had abandoned to die alone. She wasn't frail, pale, and exhausted from chemotherapy.

She was younger, full of life, her eyes shining with tears of worry.

He couldn't stop himself.

He threw himself into her arms, wrapping his arms around her tightly, as if afraid she would vanish if he closed his eyes for even a second.

He cried. He cried harder than he had ever cried before.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, Mom…"

But of course, she didn't understand.

She placed her hands on his back, gently patting him, and spoke in that warm voice of hers.

"Oh, sweetheart, don't worry. Everything's going to be okay. You were lucky—it could have been much worse."

An accident?

He stopped crying for a moment and looked at her.

"What… what day is it?"

She gave him a confused look but answered anyway.

"It's February 15, 2007."

His breath caught in his throat.

2007?

Slowly, he turned his head toward the mirror in the corner of the room.

And when he saw his refl

ection, the words fell from his lips.

A young face. No wrinkles. No traces of alcohol and exhaustion.

He had gone back in time.

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