I blinked, slowly at first, as if waking from a dream that clung to the edges of my mind. The morning light hit differently, softer somehow, slipping through thin curtains and spilling across a room that was… smaller. Way smaller.
I bolted upright. Everything around me screamed familiarity and wrongness at the same time. Posters of anime and baseball players, shelves cluttered with action figures, a desk stacked with schoolbooks and doodles I hadn't touched in decades.
"What the hell…?"
My voice came out higher, lighter, like it had been filtered through a child-shaped sieve. I froze, stared at my hands. They were smaller. Too small.
'No… no, no, no.'
Memories—or was it a memory?—flashed. I remembered the rain against my face, the edge of the roof, the dizzying height, the emotions slicing through my chest like a knife…
'Wait. That was just now. That was real. I was on the roof. I—'
I glanced around frantically. The posters. The little plastic trophy on the shelf. My old baseball glove. My heart thumped so hard I could almost hear it over the surreal quiet of the room.
'This is my room. No, it's… my room. My old room.'
I scrambled out of bed, the sheets slipping off me in ways that made me feel… tiny. I stumbled toward the mirror. The reflection staring back at me had wide eyes, round chubby cheeks fluff with baby fat, and a shock of short messy hair that had no trace of the 31-year-old man I knew myself to be. Twelve, maybe thirteen. I didn't look older than that.
'I… how? How is this even possible?'
I sank to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. My thoughts were in disarray. Panic and disbelief wove together in a tight knot in my chest. The room smelled the same as it had fifteen, twenty years ago—old books, faint detergent, a hint of my father's cologne lingering in the corners.
'Did I… fall? Did I… die? Is this…?' I thought, trying to make sense out of this ridiculousness.
I forced myself to breathe. One, two, three. I had to figure this out. But the harder I tried, the more my thoughts tumbled, chaotic and jarring.
'If I'm twelve… where are my parents? Where's the apartment? Why am I here? Am I dreaming? No, I remember the roof… I remember everything before this. I was just… there. Then here. But… how?'
My gaze fell on the calendar on the wall, a childish scribble of dates and notes I'd left behind. The day's date stared back at me, impossibly, undeniably present. Today. That meant… somehow, some way, I was back. Back in time, in this body.
'This isn't real. This can't be real. Is it… real?'
But even as I whispered the words, even as my mind tried to rationalize, the weight of my own body pressed against the mattress differently, the floorboards creaked beneath my hands, and the world around me smelled, felt, looked, was undeniably real.
And then, almost too quietly to notice, a small thrill of something else stirred in me.
'If this is real… then… then maybe… maybe I can fix some things. Maybe I get another shot. Maybe…'
My thoughts were interrupted by a shout coming from downstairs. I recognized the voice instantly and a lump formed in my throat. It was my mother.
"Riku! Breakfast!" Her voice. As warm and familiar as it had always been.
"Coming!" I called back, trying to keep my voice steady.
I decided to accept this bizarre situation for now and made my way down the narrow stairway. Each step felt odd, as though I were relearning the weight and length of my own legs. The smell of miso soup and grilled fish wafted up from the kitchen, making my stomach grumble despite the knot of confusion in my chest.
My mother was there, just as I remembered her. Standing a few inches taller than me, her hair the color of caramel waving along her movements.
'Mom! I had forgotten how much she loved to change her natural black hair into different colors back then.'
She kept herself busy in the kitchen, tying an apron with the same hurried motions she had all those years ago. Looking behind her and noticing me she called out, "Finally you're up. Could you also go check on Maki? Carry her down if you have to."
She laughed but I knew she was not really kidding about it. Mom had always been a stickler for a family meal. We were never allowed to skip a meal or not have it with everyone else. Dad was an exception since he had to travel due to his job but she insisted that he make it home for meals whenever he could.
I went back upstairs, slowly knocked and entered the room opposite to mine. There in front of me, bundled in the sheets, was my sweet little sister. Makiko.
She looked like a 10 year old angel and looking at her sleeping like that just brought back a ton of emotions I didn't know how to handle.
My mind spun. 'How is this possible?'
I couldn't explain it. This wasn't a dream, I told myself—it felt too real. The warmth of the sun, the smell of rice and miso soup, the sight of my family; I could even hear the distant hum of cicadas through the open window, blending with the faint sounds of the neighborhood waking up.
'And yet… I was twelve again.'
I gently shook her shoulder. "Maki… wake up."
Her eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep. "Huh? Riku?"
"You need to get downstairs. Mom's waiting."
She yawned, rubbing her eyes with a small fist. "Already? Can't I just skip today?"
I smirked despite the chaos in my head. "Nope. You know the rules."
She groaned dramatically but swung her legs over the side of the futon. I helped her up, noticing how light she felt—how small she was compared to the version of her I remembered from years later. And yet, somehow, she was exactly the same little sister I'd grown up with: stubborn, mischievous, and impossibly energetic.
We made our way down the narrow hallway. I was hyper-aware of the wooden boards creaking under my feet, the smell of miso soup thickening as we approached the kitchen. Every detail was vivid. The steam rising from the pots, the faint metallic scent of the sink, the way sunlight cut through the kitchen window and fell across the table. I couldn't help it—I kept comparing everything to what I knew it would become, the apartment later in life, the streets, the trains, the neon glow of Tokyo nights.
Mom looked up as we entered, smiling warmly. "There you two are! Sit, sit! I've got breakfast ready."
Dad, unusually early for once, was already seated, sipping his coffee. "Morning," he said, his voice calm, measured, and utterly familiar.
I slid into my usual spot. My mind was spinning. 'I'm really here. This is really happening. I actually got another shot.'
Mom set plates down in front of us: steaming bowls of rice, miso soup, grilled salmon, pickled vegetables. Makiko eagerly grabbed her chopsticks, eyes wide as she surveyed the spread.
"Eat up before it gets cold," Mom said, hands on her hips. "And Riku, don't forget—no phones at the table. We've talked about this."
I laughed quietly, a sound that felt almost alien in my twelve-year-old body. 'No phones. Just like the old days.'
We ate in the comfortable, chaotic rhythm I remembered. Makiko chatted about nothing important, about a stray cat she'd seen outside, about how she hoped the ice cream truck would come by later. Dad gave the occasional grunt of agreement, Mom scolded lightly for minor mischief, and I listened, taking it all in. Every gesture, every word, every inflection—I remembered all of it.
And yet, there was a strange tension beneath the normalcy. I felt like a stranger inhabiting a body I once knew, watching life repeat itself in slow motion. The taste of the rice, the warmth of the soup, the laughter bouncing off the walls—they were all grounding me. They reminded me that this was real.
'I'm really here.'
And with that grounding came a new sense of responsibility. Every small interaction carried weight. Every glance, every smile, every correction from Mom wasn't just a routine—they were signals, lessons I had ignored the first time around.
When breakfast ended, I helped clear the table, all the while thinking: 'Seven days. Seven days before school starts again. Seven days to figure out how to make this second chance count.'
And even as the sunlight slanted across the kitchen floor, warming my arms and face, I couldn't shake the faint thrill building in my chest.
I was twelve again. And I had been given a second chance... a gift—or a warning. I didn't know.
Either way, I wouldn't waste it this time.