Daniel Carter's apartment smelled of old paper and instant coffee. The single-room space was cluttered with secondhand books, empty energy drink cans, and a single framed photo — his mother, his younger sister Lillian, and him, taken years ago when life was simpler. The edges of the frame were chipped, the colours slightly faded, but he kept it in plain view, a stubborn fragment of a world he'd almost forgotten how to belong to.
The crack in the ceiling stretched like a lightning bolt, a silent witness to his late-night reading binges. He traced it with his eyes every morning, as if hoping it might have magically repaired itself overnight. It never did. It grew, inch by inch, as if the ceiling itself were slowly giving up, mirroring his own weariness.
His phone buzzed again, the glow of the screen slicing through the dimness.
Another message from his mother.
"Lillian's fever spiked last night. The doctors say the new treatment isn't working as well as they'd hoped."
Daniel's chest tightened. It always did. A familiar knot that never fully loosened. He typed back, fingers stiff.
"I'll visit this weekend. Promise."
He wasn't sure if that was a lie. Lately, it was getting harder to tell.
Breakfast was a granola bar eaten over the sink, its wrapper joining the small pile of discarded ones in the corner. As he chewed, his eyes flicked to the one letter he kept tucked in his sock drawer — the last thing his father had ever given him before walking out.
A yellowed envelope, creased and torn at the corners.
"Daniel,
Life isn't a fairy tale. Stop wasting time with those damn books and grow up.
—Dad."
He'd been twelve years old, sitting on the apartment's worn couch when he first read those words. The ache of betrayal had felt bottomless then, a sharp thing lodged in his throat. Now, at twenty-two, he just felt hollow. As if the pain had dulled with time, leaving behind only a quiet, gnawing emptiness.
In the small bathroom, Daniel caught his reflection in the mirror above the cracked sink. Tousled dark hair, always slightly messy no matter how often he combed it. Deep-set eyes, a shade of grey that looked stormy in the right light. A faint stubble lined his sharp jaw, and though he wouldn't call himself striking, there was something quietly handsome about him—the kind that might've stood out if not buried under tired eyes and the weight of too many sleepless nights. He splashed cold water on his face, watching the droplets trail down skin that had gone a little too pale lately.
Pulling on his jacket, Daniel stepped out into the grey morning. The streets of Brackenford were damp, puddles dotting the cracked sidewalks. He walked with his hands in his pockets, head down, passing shuttered shops and flickering street lamps. The bookstore wasn't far, and like always, it felt like the one place that still made sense.
The "Old Quill Bookshop" was his refuge. A narrow, dimly lit place tucked between a pawn shop and a shuttered bakery, where time seemed to move slower. Mrs. Henderson, the elderly owner with hair like snow and hands like parchment, let him read for free as long as he helped organize the shelves.
He knew every corner of that shop, every creaking floorboard, every lingering scent of dust and ink. The rows of faded spines and crumbling tomes felt more like home than his own apartment.
Today, he was reading The Arcane Emperor's Return — a story about a man betrayed, left for dead, who clawed his way back to power, reshaping the world under his will. The kind of story Daniel read not because he believed it could happen, but because a small, desperate part of him wished it could.
"If only real life had second chances," he thought bitterly.
He checked the time. Class.
Daniel closed the book, the weight of its words lingering like an ache in his chest. He gave Mrs. Henderson a small wave, her gentle smile the only kindness he'd felt all day, then stepped back out into the streets.
The campus wasn't far—a short, dull walk past the usual alleyways and coffee shops with flickering signs. The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked concrete. He moved on autopilot, the world around him a blur of faces and city sounds, his thoughts still lost in battlefields and ancient ruins. Before long, the looming grey buildings of Brackenford University came into view, cold and uninviting, as always.
Professor Hargrove's economics lecture was the usual drone of numbers and theories. A symphony of dullness, spoken in monotone, echoing across half-empty seats. Daniel scribbled notes out of habit more than attention, the words blurring together into meaningless symbols.
His mind was elsewhere — leaping across battlefields, lost cities, ancient ruins filled with arcane secrets. He imagined holding a blade, feeling the surge of mana, standing tall as someone others would finally look up to.
Beside him, a classmate muttered under their breath, barely audible.
"Why do you even bother coming if you're just going to daydream?"
Daniel didn't answer. What was there to say? That the fantasy was the only thing keeping him from disappearing altogether?
After class, he stepped outside and made the call he'd been dreading.
"How is she?"
His mother's voice was thin, stretched tight with exhaustion.
"The same. They're talking about… more aggressive treatments. The cost—"
He cut her off, voice steady though his heart raced.
"I'll pick up more shifts."
It was an automatic response, as instinctive as breathing. But they both knew it wouldn't be enough. It was never enough. The weight of helplessness settled heavier on his shoulders, a constant pressure he carried alone.
The clouds above Brackenford had darkened, heavy with unshed rain. That evening, the storm rolled in. It wasn't a dramatic thunderstorm, but the steady, relentless kind — painting the streets in glistening streaks. Neon signs flickered in shop windows, their colors warping in the puddles like oil spills.
Daniel walked home, shoulders hunched, the weight of his uselessness pressing down like a stone. Every step felt heavier, his thoughts looping in circles. Work. School. Bills. The same things, over and over, a life trapped on repeat.
A scream shattered the steady hum of rain.
High-pitched, desperate. It cut through the night like a knife.
Daniel's head snapped toward the sound. A little girl, no older than six, had slipped from her mother's grip and run into the road, chasing after a bright yellow ball. Her tiny figure was silhouetted against the approaching headlights.
A car — too fast, too close — rounded the corner.
Time slowed.
He saw everything in unbearable clarity.
The mother's face, frozen in horror, her hands outstretched in vain.
The child's wide, terrified eyes, sparkling with unshed tears.
The car's headlights, glowing an eerie violet for the briefest, impossible second.
And he ran.
The collision was a symphony of breaking bones. His ribs cracked like dry branches. His skull slammed against the wet pavement. Blood filled his mouth, warm and metallic, the taste bitter.
But the child was safe.
Clutched in her sobbing mother's arms, trembling but alive.
"Thank you, thank you—!" the woman cried, her voice breaking.
Daniel tried to speak, to tell her it was alright, that he was sorry for scaring them, but only a wet gasp escaped. The world around him blurred, the cold seeped into his skin.
A strange, bittersweet relief settled in his chest — he'd saved her. At least one life. If this was how it ended, maybe it meant something after all.
But regret followed close behind, sharp and suffocating. Regret for leaving his mother, for abandoning Lillian when she needed him most. For wasting so many chances, for never becoming the person they could be proud of.
As his vision darkened, his life didn't flash forward — it lurched backward.
Lillian at seven, grinning as she handed him a crayon drawing.
"When I grow up, I'm gonna be strong like you!"
His mother, exhausted after a double shift, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
"You're a good boy, Danny."
Himself at ten, lying on the rooftop of their old apartment, staring at the stars, whispering to the dark sky:
"I want to be someone who matters."
A single, bitter thought surfaced, cold and sharp as glass.
"I never did, did I?"
Then — nothing.
Only silence, and a dark void that pulled him away, swift and final.