Second Chance

Eve's body felt oddly numb, like she had spent the whole night wrestling a bear or maybe just sleeping in a very, very weird position. Her eyes fluttered open, and the world greeted her in a hazy blur, sunlight sneaking through the curtains like a nosy neighbor.

Her head throbbed faintly, and every muscle in her body felt like it had been through a full workout session without her permission. What the heck had she done? A marathon in her sleep? Maybe she had finally taken up yoga; unlikely, but a girl could dream.

She pushed herself upright and blinked, taking in her surroundings. Then she blinked again.

This was… her room. But not just any version of her room; the exact version of it from years ago. The familiar bedspread, the slightly lopsided wooden dresser, even the faint scent of lavender from the old candles she used to obsess over.

Okay. That was weird.

Maybe she's dreaming? Maybe she has finally lost her mind? But before she could spiral too deep into an existential crisis, a knock on the door made her jump.

The door creaked open, and in walked; oh, she was definitely hallucinating now.

Mr. Song.

The ever-dutiful butler, looking exactly as he had all those years ago, stepped inside with his usual calm, holding a glass of water like it was a sacred offering.

"Miss Eve, you're awake," he said with a sigh of relief, like she had just woken up from a coma instead of an afternoon nap. "How are you feeling?"

Eve just… stared. Words? Who needed words? She was too busy trying to figure out if she was dead, dreaming, or in some bizarre time-travel prank show.

Mr. Song's brows furrowed. "Miss?" He leaned forward slightly. "Are you alright? Do you need something?"

Yes, actually. An explanation, a time machine manual, and possibly a therapist.

Instead of answering, she just gawked at him. He was real. Right in front of her. The same kind, loyal butler who had watched over her like an exasperated uncle when no one else did.

Memories hit her like a brick to the face. Mr. Song had been the first to sense something off about Lucas. She had been so head-over-heels for the guy that she practically floated through life like a lovesick teenager in a rom-com.

She winced at the thought. Oh, past Eve. Sweet, naïve past Eve.

She had even laughed when Mr. Song, in his usual cryptic way, had warned her about love. And she had smiled because she thought he was rooting for her and Lucas. Oh, the irony.

Her fingers tightened around the glass, and oops. It slipped right out of her grip, hitting the floor with a spectacular crash.

"Miss!" Mr. Song gasped, darting forward like a dramatic hero in a soap opera. He wrapped her bleeding hand in a towel so fast, she barely processed what happened. "Stay still! I'll call the doctor."

Eve, meanwhile, was having a mild existential breakdown. The pain? The warmth of blood? That felt real.

Okay, so maybe she wasn't dreaming. Or dead.

Before she could spiral further, her phone rang, blaring loudly from her nightstand. Eve turned her head slowly, her gut telling her whatever's on that screen is going to wreck your day.

She picked it up. The wallpaper? The date? The year?

April 5th.

Her brain momentarily short-circuited.

Her phone slipped from her hands and plopped onto the bed, but she barely noticed.

This wasn't happening. Nope. No way. Not a chance.

But she needed proof.

With the grace of a newborn giraffe, she stumbled toward the full-length mirror. The moment she saw her reflection, she nearly face planted.

Her skin was smooth, unmarked by time. No stress lines. No exhaustion from years of bad decisions.

She looked twenty-four again.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face.

If this was real; if she had somehow gone back; then…

Her heart pounded.

Lucas.

She had a second chance. A chance to rewrite everything. To make better choices.

Her fingers curled into fists.

This time? This time, she was going to play smarter. No swooning. No tragic heartbreaks.

This time, she was in control.