"The Beginning Always Starts Small"
The noise still echoed faintly in his mind.
That tune—soft, drifting, aimless—had come out of nowhere during his final class of the day. It was just someone humming. Could've been a student passing by a window, a janitor mopping a hallway, maybe even a random passerby. He hadn't seen the source. He hadn't needed to.
It was the sound itself that struck him. Not the voice.
Just the music.
The moment the tune slipped into his ear, something cracked open inside. A door between the present and the past. Between Michael McLovin and… whoever he used to be.
A kinda melody from Earth.
He couldn't place which song, but it made everything around him fade. Suddenly he remembered music—not just sounds, but memories tied to songs that defined a life he no longer lived. Back there, he had playlists for every season, heartbreaks sung by Adele, nights lit by The Weeknd, ambition fueled by J. Cole, and hope sparked by Bruno Mars.
'That's it', he thought. That's how I'll make my mark here.
If he was going to survive—and more than that, live—in this world, it would be through music. They didn't have those songs here. Not the rhythms, not the poetry, not the heart. This world felt muted in comparison.
Then I'll give it a soundtrack.
He pulled out his notebook and flipped to a blank page.
At the top, he wrote in bold letters:
MY FUTURE STARTS HERE
Then he began listing steps:
1. Write down every song I remember. Even bits and pieces.
2. Recreate melodies, rewrite lyrics into local style.
3. Look for places to perform: school events, parks, cafes.
4. Save up for recording equipment.
5. Share. Spread. Change something.
It was rough. It wasn't perfect. But it was his.
The first thing he would do when he got home: start sketching out the chords to "Just the Way You Are" by Bruno Mars. He couldn't play piano well—yet—but he remembered the melody. That would be his first experiment. If he could capture the soul of that song in this world, the rest would follow.
He just gonna sketch it but his first priority is his favorite "You'll be safe here "
'This time, I'm not going to waste my second life.'
The bell rang overhead sharp, real, pulling him out of thought.
The school day was over.
---
Michael slung his bag over his shoulder and joined the tide of students spilling into the hallway. Some chatted. Some sprinted for the exits. Some stayed behind to flirt or cram in last-minute conversations. He just walked quietly, lost in his mind.
The air outside was warm and gentle. A few clouds hung low over the distant hills. Hillside High stood on the edge of a calm neighborhood, and from here, it was a straight walk home. Ten minutes, maybe less.
As he stepped through the school gates and turned onto Elwood Drive, the buzz of the world grew softer.
Just like the humming tune earlier—it all began to fade.
---
His house came into view near the end of the street.
A two-story home, simple but inviting. The front was painted a soft cream, with stone accents along the corners and dark brown window frames. A small metal gate opened to a short stone pathway flanked by trimmed bushes and a patch of grass that badly needed watering.
The balcony on the second floor jutted out from his parents' bedroom, with a faded wooden chair and two potted plants drooping over the edge. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn halfway. Wind chimes near the front door danced quietly in the breeze.
Michael opened the gate, walked up the steps, and slipped his key into the lock.
The smell hit him before he even closed the door behind him.
Something was cooking.
Something good.
---
He stepped inside and dropped his bag by the shoe rack. The floor creaked slightly under his weight, familiar now. The living room opened to the left—modest in size, with a soft grey couch facing a worn TV stand. A small rug sat under a square coffee table, and a stack of magazines rested neatly in one corner. To the right, through a wide archway, was the kitchen—the heart of the house.
Michael followed the scent.
In the kitchen, a woman stood at the stove, humming softly—not the tune from earlier, but something warm and rhythmless. A kitchen towel draped over her shoulder, and a wooden spoon stirred what looked like a pan of garlic butter chicken.
"Smells amazing," Michael said.
She turned, startled, then smiled wide.
"Back already?" she said. "Didn't even hear the door."
His mother Elena McLovin looked effortlessly at home in her own kitchen. Her auburn hair was tied up loosely, with a few strands framing her kind, slightly flushed face. She wore a soft yellow blouse tucked into beige pants, and a pale apron that read "I Don't Need a Recipe, I'm a Mom."
Michael stepped closer. "You're cooking my favorite."
"Garlic chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans," she nodded. "I thought you looked tired this morning, so… mom instincts kicked in."
He smiled faintly. "You're not wrong."
Elena winked. "Go freshen up. Dinner's in 7."
He was about to leave, but then the front door opened again.
---
Heavy footsteps. A grunt.
"Long day," came a deep voice from the front hallway.
"Dinner's almost done," Elena called back.
Michael turned to see Nathan McLovin enter the kitchen, loosening his tie and rubbing the back of his neck. His sleeves were rolled up, shirt wrinkled from the long workday. His dark hair had a streak of early grey at the sides, and his posture screamed exhaustion.
"Smells like home," he said, kissing his wife on the cheek. Then he nodded toward Michael. "Hey, bud."
"Hey, Dad," Michael replied.
Nathan set his leather bag on the counter, cracked his knuckles, and muttered, "One of these days I'm quitting that place. Gonna open a fishing shop."
"You don't even fish," Elena said, smirking.
"I'll learn."
Michael chuckled quietly, then slipped away toward the stairs.
---
His room was clean—mostly. Bed made. Desk cluttered with notes and drawings. In the far corner stood a cheap keyboard he convinced his parents to buy, claiming it was "for school music class." He hadn't told them yet it would become his lifeline.
He opened the closet and started changing out of his uniform.
Hillside High's uniform was… decent. A white collared shirt with navy piping along the sleeves, worn over charcoal-gray slacks. On colder days, they added a matching navy blazer with the school emblem—a hill crest with a small sun above it—sewn into the chest pocket.
He folded it carefully and looked over at his wardrobe mirror—a long, narrow rectangle stickered to the inner door.
There he was.
A fifteen-year-old boy. Not from here. Not really.
His black hair fell in soft waves across his forehead. His skin was pale from too much time indoors, but healthy. His frame wasn't bulky or athletic, but lean. His jaw still had a touch of childhood roundness, but his eyes…
Those grey-blue eyes looked older than they should.
"This is me now," he thought. "Michael McLovin. Son. Student. About to became a musician,writer,developer,actor,director. A Reincarnated nobody."
But maybe not a nobody forever.
He shut the door, exhaled, and went downstairs.
---
The dining table was already set. Glasses of cold water, plates stacked at each seat, and bowls of food resting on hot pads in the center.
Michael sat down, eyes drawn immediately to the meal.
Golden garlic butter chicken, still steaming from the pan. A large bowl of creamy mashed potatoes, with a swirl of brown gravy in the middle. A plate of crisp green beans and bacon, glistening slightly with oil. And in the corner, a tray of warm dinner rolls wrapped in a towel.
He hadn't eaten all day. The cake is not counted
Nathan sat across from him with a groan. Elena joined them a second later, wiping her hands on her apron.
"This looks amazing," Michael said.
"Don't wait too long," Elena smiled. "Before your father steals all the chicken."
Nathan was already reaching.
Michael laughed, picked up his fork, and for the first time since waking up in this new world…
He felt ready.