Chapter 4

A collection of stories written by winners, carefully pieced together to shape how we see the past—crafted and manipulated to steer what happens next. Sounds like a bunch of nonsense to me. Why should I trust the idiots who call themselves human? They're stuck in their own messes, barely held back by what they pretend are virtues. Their mistakes repeat over and over, echoing through time. The people who really get history either use it to get ahead or end up too weak to do anything with it.

We're all stuck here. The only thing that makes us different from animals is that we can talk. Words—our greatest invention, a tool that can either make you think or just lull you into laziness. We use them to pass along ideas, share knowledge, and build on the past. But does that really make us any better? Or just more aware of how screwed up we are?

The teacher's voice cut through my thoughts.

"Okay, class. Imagine being a pilgrim in early America. A time when life was hard. When the very chair you sat on had to be built with your bare hands. When fear of native invasion lurked behind every shadow, and paranoia clung to your mind like a second skin. You and the others—strangers, settlers, dreamers—alone in a vast, untamed land. Only held together by the fragile hope of a better life."

The lesson of the day: early settlers. The founders of our country. The troubled explorers who paved the way for the world we lived in now.

I barely paid attention.

Instead, I let my head sink onto my desk, the cool surface grounding me for just a moment. My brain needed rest. It had spent too much time analyzing, criticizing—rightly analyzing, as I preferred to call it—the world and its oddities. The sheer weight of my own thoughts pressed down on me, and for once, I just wanted to stop. To drift.

My arms folded over my head, creating a small, enclosed space of darkness. The air beneath my arms was thick and warm, collecting my breath in an almost suffocating pocket. It felt oddly comforting. I let myself sink into it, deeper, further, the sounds of the classroom fading into a dull, distant hum.

I wandered.

I waited.

I drifted…

A shrill, merciless alarm tore through the world.

My body jolted, instincts taking over. My hand shot out to grab my phone, fingers fumbling against the sheets—sheets?

My eyes snapped open. But something was wrong.

The weight behind them felt heavier, like I had been asleep for far too long. A sluggish fog clung to my thoughts, slowing my movements, making everything feel off. And then, as my vision adjusted, I froze.

This wasn't my desk.

This wasn't my classroom.

I was in my room

My bed. My walls. My desk, my window, my life staring back at me as if it had never changed. The faint morning light bled through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room, the air filled with the same familiar scent of home.

But… how?

My thoughts raced, sluggish at first but gaining speed, tumbling over one another in a frantic attempt to make sense of what I was seeing.

Wasn't I in class? Third period history?

Why am I here?

Did I dream it? No... No, no, no, something's wrong.

My breath hitched.

Dreams aren't like that. Dreams are fleeting, hazy, fragmented things. But this—this has weight. Every detail, every sound, every feeling in that classroom was too vivid, too real. I can still remember the way my head felt against the desk, the warmth of my breath beneath my arms, the static hum of the lights.

Maybe I'm lucid dreaming?

Liam, stood up abruptly, trying to rationalize his situation, slowly intaking everything he could remember up from being in third period and being in his room. 

Okay, maybe I just...blanked out? Had a hole in my memory? Right dozen hour whole, thats not possible, well maybe if I have something wrong with my brain at which case—no no lets not panic nothing is wrong with me I just need to remember'

Liam sat there for a decent amount of time trying to remember anything past when he laid down his head. Liam tried and tried but nothing happened. Of course, as humans we rationalize situations, trying to break them into believable and digestible parts, and logically, he assumed that he had just forgotten the entire day, and maybe needed to visit the doctor or consult a therapist. 

Liam slowly got out of his bed, and put on some clothes. 

***

He walked again.

The dull crunch of frost beneath his feet. The thick white powder. The cold breath curled in the air. His thoughts, the weight of them, lingered in the same places. It was all the same.

Then, a voice.

"How was your morning?"

Liam's breath hitched as he turned. Chester stood there, same posture, same tone, same expectant look in his eyes. A cold knot tightened in Liam's stomach.

"Didn't you ask me this yesterday?" he asked, his voice slower, hesitant.

Chester furrowed his brows, tilting his head slightly. "...No? Yesterday was Sunday. Today is Monday. We weren't here yesterday."

Liam stared at him, his mind churning. His lips parted slightly as if to say something, but nothing came out. The cold suddenly felt sharper, more present, wrapping around him like a weight.

"Huh," Liam finally muttered, more to himself than to Chester.

Chester gave a small chuckle, as if Liam had made some joke he didn't understand, then shifted his backpack on his shoulder and walked ahead.

Liam didn't move right away. He just stood there, watching the snow, feeling the ghost of the previous morning pressing against him like an echo, something he couldn't shake. Something was wrong. Well, it's more like something wasn't right.

The bus arrived. He hesitated before stepping on. 

***

Liam stepped onto the bus, still unsettled. The cold air clung to his skin as he shuffled to the same seat, halfway down, by the window. Chester had moved on, chatting with someone else, but Liam barely heard him. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the impossible feeling gnawing at his gut.

He sat down, exhaling slowly, watching the frost-laced world pass by. The bus rocked gently as it rolled forward, tires humming against the pavement in a steady, rhythmic drone. The sound seeped into his bones, into his mind, dulling the edge of his thoughts.

He needed to calm down.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was overthinking.

Liam let his head rest against the cold window. The glass fogged slightly with his breath, blurring the outside world into soft, shifting shapes. His body, tense from the morning's confusion, slowly started to unwind.

The hum of the bus. The warmth of his jacket. The faint conversations around him, muffled and distant.

His eyelids grew heavy.

His fingers twitched against his backpack, the fabric rough beneath his touch. The weight of exhaustion, of too many thoughts, pulled at him like a tide. He let it. Let himself sink into the familiar lull, the space between waking and sleep.

His mind wandered.

Maybe he was still at his desk. Maybe none of today had even started yet. Maybe—

The world snapped.

Not a jolt. Not a crash. Just—shifted.

The hum of the bus disappeared. The cold against his skin was gone.

Liam opened his eyes.

And his breath caught in his throat.

Desks. Fluorescent lights. The faint scent of dry-erase markers.

"Okay, class. Imagine being a pilgrim in early America..."

The teacher's voice rang out, just like before.

Liam's stomach dropped.

No.

His hands gripped the desk. His heart pounded. He turned his head, just slightly, just enough to see the students around him, all in the same positions, all exactly as they had been earlier.

This was real. This had happened.

He had gone back.

Liam forced himself to stay calm. Forced himself to breathe evenly.

If he panicked now, he'd lose control.

He needed to test it.

Slowly, subtly, he let his body relax again. His heartbeat steadied. He focused on the familiar weight of the desk beneath his arms, the warmth of the classroom, the faint buzzing of the lights.

He let his thoughts drift, just as he had before.

The desk. The hum. The heaviness in his body, pulling him down.

He pictured his bed, walls, and curtains.

He waited.

The world softened.

And then—

The alarm.

Liam gasped, sitting up straight.

His bed. His room. His walls. The faint morning light pressing through the curtains.

Back home.

Again.

Liam sat there, breathless, heart hammering against his ribs.

It wasn't a dream. It wasn't déjà vu.

He had gone back in time.