Chapter 1: The Flames of Regret

The fire was everywhere.

It licked hungrily at the walls, consuming everything in its path. The once-mighty restaurant was reduced to a crumbling inferno, its secrets melting away into ash. Michael Afton staggered through the chaos, his body screaming with pain. His limbs felt heavy, his skin scorched, and the oppressive heat was unbearable. Yet, he trudged on, clutching the faint hope that this final act would end it all.

The souls of the lost children surrounded him, their presence a bittersweet comfort. He had done it. He had freed them, given them the peace they deserved. But the price was steep. This was his end. As the fire roared louder, Michael felt the pull of death—the dark, cold embrace of nothingness waiting to claim him.

"It's over," he whispered, his voice raspy. His vision blurred as he crumpled to his knees, gazing up at the collapsing ceiling. His father's monstrous laughter echoed faintly in his mind, even as the man's sins burned with him.

For a brief moment, Michael allowed himself to feel relief. He had done something good, something that mattered. Then the world went black.

------

When Michael opened his eyes, he expected to find himself in darkness. But instead, he was bathed in warm sunlight. The air was clean, crisp, and entirely unlike the suffocating heat of the fire. Disoriented, he sat up and looked around, his breath catching in his throat.

He was in his childhood room.

The bed beneath him was the same worn mattress he had slept on as a teenager, the posters on the wall unchanged from years ago. The faint scent of his mother's cooking wafted through the door, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the familiar hum of his father's workshop.

Michael's heart raced. Was this a dream? A cruel hallucination conjured by his dying mind? He staggered to his feet, the floor cool against his bare soles. Every detail felt so vivid, so real. He stumbled to the mirror hanging on his wall, half expecting to see the rotting, decayed visage he had grown accustomed to in his later years. Instead, he was greeted by the face of a young man, alive and whole.

"What...?" he murmured, raising a hand to his reflection. His skin was smooth, unscarred, free of the horrors he had endured. His hair was thicker, darker, and his eyes... they held a life he thought he'd lost long ago.

Panic set in. He rushed to the door and flung it open, stepping into the hallway. The house was as he remembered it—bright, alive, filled with the sounds of a family that hadn't yet fallen apart. He took a shaky step forward, his mind racing with questions. How was this possible? Why was he here?

"Michael, breakfast!"

The sound of his mother's voice froze him in place. His chest tightened as the weight of everything hit him at once. She was alive. His mother, his siblings—they were all alive. Tears welled up in his eyes as he leaned against the wall for support. This wasn't just a dream. It couldn't be.

"Michael?"

He turned sharply to see a small figure standing at the end of the hallway. Evan. His little brother stared at him with wide, curious eyes, clutching a stuffed bear to his chest. The sight of him—so innocent, so untouched by tragedy—nearly brought Michael to his knees.

"Evan," he choked out, his voice trembling.

The boy tilted his head, frowning slightly. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Michael let out a shaky laugh, wiping his eyes. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, I'm fine."

But he wasn't fine. His mind was spinning, trying to piece together how this was possible. He had died. He was sure of it. Yet here he was, standing in a moment pulled straight from his past. Was this some kind of second chance? A cruel trick of fate?

As he followed Evan to the kitchen, the sound of laughter and clinking dishes growing louder, Michael made a silent vow. Whatever this was—a dream, a miracle, or something else entirely—he wouldn't waste it. If he had been brought back, it was for a reason. And this time, he wouldn't let history repeat itself.

----

The table was set, the smell of pancakes and syrup filling the air. His mother smiled warmly as she placed a plate in front of him, her presence so radiant it almost hurt to look at her. Elizabeth chattered excitedly about something inconsequential, her voice high and cheerful. His father sat at the head of the table, reading the newspaper, his expression calm and composed.

It was perfect. Too perfect.

Michael sat in stunned silence, his appetite nonexistent. As the conversation flowed around him, he couldn't shake the sense of unease crawling up his spine. He had to find out why he was here, what had brought him back. But for now, he would play along. He would smile, laugh, and pretend that everything was normal.

Because deep down, he knew the perfection wouldn't last. The shadows of the future loomed just out of sight, waiting to pounce.

And Michael would be ready.