Inside the crowded screening room, surrounded by murmurs, shadows, and flickering light, the audience was lost in the film.
But one soul was lost somewhere else—searching for reality itself.
"It's me."
Eric's voice echoed softly, though no one heard it.
Memory returned all at once, violent and absolute. His past life surged back into him—not as fragments, not as dreams, but as truth. He remembered who he had been. A sophomore. A film student. Someone rushing through life with friends, obsessed with cinema, struggling to finish a short-film project before the deadline.
A normal life.
A life that had ended.
As the realization settled, disbelief followed.
Francis Ford Coppola only had three children.
The thought struck like a blade.
Then what am I?
"I'm not real," Eric whispered. "Everything is fake. No… I'm fake. Am I made up?"
The question shattered him.
Tears streamed down his face as he stood, his small body trembling. Blood began to seep from his arms, his legs, his forehead—as if reality itself was rejecting him. Yet he kept walking, drawn toward the enormous glass-like surface before him.
The screen.
It now showed a car accident.
Twisted metal. Broken glass. Screaming silence.
That was the moment he died.
He saw himself there—lifeless. And beside him, his three friends—injured, terrified, but alive.
"It's good," Eric whispered, tears spilling freely now. "It's good to see my friends are alive."
A broken laugh escaped his chest, raw and unrestrained. Grief and relief tangled together until he could no longer tell them apart.
"Well… that sums it up," he said quietly. "I'm someone new now."
He clenched his fists and began to punch the glass.
One.
Two.
Three.
"From today onward, I am Eric," he declared. "Not whoever I was before. I leave that life behind."
The final blow shattered the glass.
A blinding white light poured in, swallowing everything—sound, pain, thought.
"Wish you well," a distant voice said. "We'll meet again soon."
"Who?" Eric asked.
His eyes snapped open.
He was in a car.
Warm sunlight filtered through the windows. His mouth felt wet—drool or tears, he couldn't tell.
"Oh—you're awake, my son," Eleanor said gently, cradling Sofia as she fed her. "Did you have a nightmare?"
"We're almost home," Francis added, glancing back briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
"Yeah… a little," Eric replied, rubbing his head and wiping sweat from his face.
That was one crazy ride, he thought. A new life… and somehow, it's even better.
And just like that, the memories faded again—sealed away as before.
Life resumed its ordinary rhythm.
Until three days later.
March 17, 1972.
The house was decorated modestly—balloons, streamers, a small cake resting proudly on the table.
"Happy birthday, son," Francis and Eleanor said together, kissing Eric's cheeks.
"You're four years old now, Eric," Eleanor added, lighting the candles.
"Happy birthday, brother!" Sofia, Gian, and Roman said one after another, handing him gifts.
"Thank you, everyone," Eric said sincerely, blowing out the candles with a smile that came easily.
That night, he fell asleep happier than he could remember being.
When he woke, a blue screen hovered in front of his eyes—transparent, unmistakable.
01:25:56
Large white numbers glowed silently.
Eric blinked.
Hallucination, he decided, ignoring it as he went about his day—washing up, eating breakfast, babysitting.
But the screen remained.
And the numbers kept counting down.
No one else noticed it.
As if it didn't exist.
As if it existed only for him.
00:00:21
Eric stared, heart pounding.
Ah… so it's that kind of system, he thought. The kind that appears when someone regresses or transmigrates.
Excitement bubbled beneath his calm exterior as he waited.
00:00:00
"It's time," Eric whispered, alone in his room.
And he smiled.