That night, sleep dragged her into something stranger than a dream.
She was seventeen again, standing at the gates of their high school. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard. Her backpack hung heavy on her shoulders, and in her hands, the workbook was new, uncreased, its pages crisp.
She looked down at herself in shock—uniform, shoes, even the faint ink smudge on her fingers from earlier scribbles. This wasn't memory. It was reliving.
And then she heard him.
"Emma!"
She turned. There he was—Ethan Blake, eighteen, his smile so bright it nearly stopped her heart. He ran toward her, hair catching the sunlight, eyes fixed only on her.
She staggered back, wanting to collapse into his arms, but fear rooted her to the spot. She knew how this story ended.
Time twisted around her, and Emma realized that past and present were no longer separated. She was standing at the threshold of both.