Chapter 5
The alarm buzzed at exactly 5:00 AM.
Michael's eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he lay still, staring at the pale ceiling above him. Then he rolled over, rubbed his face with both hands, and slowly sat up. He looked out the window — dawn had just broken, the sky painted with a soft gradient of lavender and orange. A new day, and this time, he had a decision to follow through.
"No more being lazy," he muttered to himself.
He stood up, walked barefoot across the room, and began stretching. His arms reached above his head as he inhaled deeply, then he bent down, trying to touch his toes. A few cracks echoed from his back, but he smiled.
"That's the sound of progress," he said.
He moved on to lunges, slow and deliberate, his muscles still stiff from sleep. He did a few jumping jacks, then shook out his limbs. He was about to get down and start his push-ups when —
Click.
The doorknob turned.
Before he could even react, the door creaked open. Michael's brain froze, and in a split-second panic, he dropped down and laid flat on the carpet like a corpse.
"Michael?" his mother's voice came from the doorway. "What are you doing this early?"
He turned his head slowly toward her, his face heating up. "Uhmm... exercising."
She stepped in slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, so you're about to do push-ups?"
"Yeah…"
There was an awkward pause before she smiled faintly and closed the door again. He stayed flat for a second longer, then groaned and rolled over.
"God, that was humiliating."
By 6:00 AM, Michael was out of the shower, his hair damp and his skin tingling from the cold water. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair neatly, and put on a plain white shirt and jeans.
Downstairs, the scent of garlic fried rice, eggs, and crispy hotdogs filled the air. He stepped into the kitchen and saw his mom already seated, sipping coffee. His dad sat at the other end of the table, newspaper in one hand, spoon in the other.
"Morning," Michael greeted as he pulled out a chair.
"Morning, champ," his dad said, without looking up.
His mom gave a small smirk. "Did your push-up session go well?"
Michael rolled his eyes. "Don't start."
His dad folded the newspaper slowly, finally revealing a teasing grin. "So I heard you've taken up early morning military training. Gonna apply for the Marines or something?"
Michael groaned, taking a bite of his rice. "It's just exercise. Normal people do it."
"Oh sure," his dad said dramatically. "Normal people don't drop dead on the carpet when someone opens the door."
His mom chuckled, trying not to laugh too loud. "At least he's trying. That's something."
"Next time," his dad said, tapping his spoon on the table like a drumroll, "try not to look like a crime scene victim."
Michael shook his head and muttered through a mouthful of hotdog, "Never doing push-ups again."
But despite the teasing, there was a warmth in the moment. A normal family breakfast, the kind he had only dreamed of in his past life.
When they were about to finish breakfast, Michael remembered something.
"Oh! Mom," he said suddenly. "I almost forgot. I have a delivery today — a guitar. Can you get it for me when it arrives?"
His mom blinked. "A guitar? How much was it?"
Michael hesitated. "Uh… thirty-two dollars."
His mom tilted her head. "That's kinda expensive."
"I know," he said quickly. "But I've been thinking about joining the music club. It might help me feel... connected here."
She stared at him for a second, then smiled. "Alright. I'll take it. Just make sure you use it."
"I will," he promised.
They all stood up afterward, preparing to part ways. His dad grabbed his keys, kissed his wife on the cheek, and ruffled Michael's hair.
"Try not to scare anyone with your workouts, soldier."
Michael gave a mock salute. "Yes, sir."
The morning breeze brushed against his cheeks as he walked toward the bus stop. The sun was rising higher now, casting golden light on the streets. Michael hummed quietly — not any particular song, just a random melody.
The guitar was on his mind.
Would the music club even accept someone like him? He hadn't played since his last life. Back then, he had a secondhand acoustic guitar, scuffed and battered, but to him it was priceless. He taught himself late at night, watching tutorials and mimicking chords until his fingers blistered.
A bus rounded the corner, its sign reading: ElwoodSouth Gate High School.
Michael stepped aboard and took a seat by the window. He looked into the wide mirror at the front of the bus.
His reflection stared back. Brown hair, slightly messy, tired eyes — but determined.
His mind wandered.
In his previous life, he was known as Jonathan Caculamba. He came from a broken home. His mother had left when he was only ten years old, ran off with another man. That memory still lingered — her shouting, the slam of the door, his father's silence afterward.
Jonathan's father — his real father — had raised him alone. A stern but caring man. He worked two jobs to keep them afloat, sacrificed everything for his son.
Jonathan made it into college on a scholarship. A month into his first semester, he got the call.
Car accident.
Gone.
He never got to say goodbye.
Michael clenched his hands on his knees as the bus rumbled forward.
He had a second chance now. A new name. A new life.
As the bus slowed, his eyes lifted.
South Gate High School was in view. A grand, three-story building with clean white walls and modern glass panels that reflected the morning sun. It was surrounded by trimmed gardens and wide lawns, benches arranged under trees, and a wide circular fountain right at the entrance.
It looked like something out of a brochure. Big. Beautiful. Spacious.
Michael took a breath.
"Let's try this again... properly this time."
And he stepped off the bus.