Chapter 1: The Garden of Regret
The world was a blur of polished marble and silent grief. Elias Thorne stood apart from the small gathering, a statue of a man carved from regret. He didn't belong here, among the soft sobs and shared memories. He was the ghost at this funeral, the uninvited guest who had caused it all.
Eleanor Shaw.
The name was a fresh wound, carved deeper with every beat of his heart. He watched from the shadows of a large oak tree, the rain soaking his expensive suit, but he felt nothing. The cold was inside him. At forty-eight, he was a king. He commanded a billion-dollar empire, his name a symbol of power and success.
And he had never been more of a failure.
The simple casket was a stark contrast to the opulent mausoleums surrounding it. He saw a single photograph placed beside it—a picture of Eleanor, her auburn hair catching the sun, her smile the same one he remembered from when they were seventeen. It was the smile he had extinguished.
A memory, sharp and cruel, unfolded behind his eyes. The senior year party. The noise, the laughter that felt hollow now. Eleanor, standing alone, her eyes wide with a hurt he had put there. Him, standing with the popular crowd, saying the words that would sever their friendship forever. He had traded her quiet, steady love for a world that now felt empty.
He had built his empire on the grave of his only happiness.
A broken sound escaped him, lost in the patter of the rain. He stumbled back, his composure crumbling. This was the price of his ambition. His penthouse, his fortune, his power—it was all a beautifully decorated cage, and he was the only prisoner. The silence there was deafening, filled only by the echo of her laughter.
"One more chance," he whispered, the words torn from a place of raw, desperate pain. "Please. I would give everything I have. I would walk away from it all just to see her smile at me one more time. To fix what I broke."
He didn't expect an answer. But the universe, it seemed, was listening.
A searing pain exploded behind his eyes. The world dissolved—the rain, the grave, the distant city—all of it melting into a swirl of light and sound. He was falling, tumbling through a tunnel of memories: the smell of old books in the library, the warmth of her hand in his, the sound of her voice saying his name—*Eli!*
Then, nothing.
***
Consciousness returned softly, like a gentle tide. A familiar, musty scent filled his nose. The feel of a worn flannel sheet beneath his fingers. A soft, rhythmic beeping.
His eyes fluttered open.
He was lying in his old bed. The room was dark, lit only by the streetlight filtering through the curtain with the rocket ships. He pushed himself up, his body feeling strange. Lighter. His hands, resting on the faded comforter, were young again. No scars, no calluses from years of deal-making. Just the soft hands of a boy.
His heart beat a frantic, youthful rhythm.
This had to be a dream. A beautiful, cruel dream.
He slid out of bed, his legs unsteady, and walked to the mirror on the closet door. The face that stared back made his breath catch.
It was him. Eli Thorne. Seventeen years old. His dark hair was a mess, his eyes held a softness he had forgotten, and the worry lines that had marked his brow for decades were gone.
He was wearing an old band t-shirt, thin and soft from countless washes.
He turned, taking in the room. The posters on the wall, the stack of textbooks, the chunky computer. It was all exactly as he remembered. His eyes fell on the calendar. A red circle marked a date. Tomorrow.
The Senior Year Kick-Off Party.
The night he lost her.
The reality washed over him, not as a shock, but as a profound, quiet warmth. He had been given a gift. A chance to tend a garden he had once burned to the ground.
He looked at his reflection, a new light in his young eyes.
"Okay, Eli," he said softly, a promise to himself and to the memory of the woman he loved. "This time, we do it right. This time, we build a life with her in it."