Chapter 1

"What? Because he was smoking?!" I shouted, sinking onto the couch. My eyes drifted over the old newspaper in my hand before I tossed it onto the coffee table.

"Yeah." My mom's voice was soft as she crossed the room, holding a cup of tea. A frown settled on her face as memories seemed to stir. "Poor boy. He had so much ahead of him." She sat down next to me, picking up the worn, torn newspaper with her free hand. "He was going to be a singer, you know. He was quite talented."

I frowned, her words settling heavily on me. Even though it happened years ago, the sadness still felt fresh—especially since I was only hearing about it just now.

My gaze shifted to the box of my mom's high school keepsakes. This day wasn't supposed to end with such a random, heartbreaking discovery from her past.

I had waited until the last minute to start my project on the early 2000s for school. Figuring it would be easier to rummage through my mom's old things considering she was in high school during that period, I went up to the attic. That's when I found this newspaper. I lifted it up again, reading the headline once more: "St. Joseph's Secondary School Student, Jake Lee, Stabbed at 16."

I studied the grainy photo of him, then turned to my mom. "He was really handsome."

She blinked in surprise, then smiled warmly. "That he was. So popular with the girls." She paused for a moment, her eyes distant, and sighed. "But even handsome, popular boys, can have enemies."

There was a heaviness in her voice that made her words feel almost hollow, yet laced with some sad truth. I couldn't fully grasp it. How could anyone hate him so much they'd want him dead? It seemed impossible. Sure, having enemies is part of life, especially in high school, but that kind of hate—enough to end someone's life—was beyond anything I could understand.

Apparently, this story had been huge back then, making all the headlines. Afterward, schools tightened their security, trying to prevent another tragedy like this from happening.

"Did they ever find out who stabbed him?" I asked, curiosity gnawing at me.

Nowhere in the article did it say the attacker had been caught. I couldn't wrap my head around how someone could just sneak onto school grounds with a knife—and get away with it.

My mom's expression grew distant. She took a sip of her tea, then lowered the cup to her lap, staring straight ahead. "That, my dear..." she said softly, her words trailing off. "Remains a mystery to this day."

I let out a slight gasp. This boy... he was so young. He had so much ahead of him, and yet, no one had ever received justice for his death.

"Did you suspect anyone back then?" I asked again, still consumed by curiosity. My mom had gone to school with him. Surely she must have been suspicious of some of her classmates. Anyone who would have been involved in the murder.

She let out a small, dry chuckle and set her cup down, meeting my gaze. "Don't dwell too much on the past." Her tone was lighter, but there was an edge to it. She grabbed the newspaper and, without hesitation, crumpled it in her hands. "I don't even know why I kept this piece of trash all these years."

My eyes widened slightly. The tension in her voice was unmistakable—she clearly didn't want to talk about it anymore. But I couldn't help myself. My mom was usually an open book, always sharing stories with me, but she had never once talked about her high school years. Why now, when I was finally starting to learn more, was she shutting me down?

"You should just focus on your project." she said firmly, clearing the table without looking back at me.

I slumped deeper into the couch, pouting as I whined. "But, Mom!"

"No buts." Her tone cut through my protest like a knife. "You need to start taking school more seriously, young lady."

I sighed and sat up, muttering under my breath. "Fine..."

Deep down, I knew she was right. I had a bad habit of leaving my projects and assignments until the last minute, always getting distracted by something else. But I owed it to her. After everything she'd done for me, raising me alone, I needed to step up. The least I could do was study hard, get good grades, and make it into a decent college.

I lay back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes drift to the same ticking clock on the wall. I groan and roll my eyes. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound drills into my thoughts, louder with each passing second. The clock doesn't even match the furniture. It's big, old, and frankly, a little creepy.

"Where did you even get this clock?" I groaned, my irritation seeping into my voice. My mom knew how much I hated that thing, though I couldn't explain why exactly. Something about it just set me on edge.

She paused, glancing up at the clock before offering a small, almost forced smile as she looked back at me. "It was a gift. It's not polite to reject gifts, okay dear?"

There was an underlying tension in her words, a firmness I wasn't expecting. It wasn't the first time we'd had this conversation, but her reaction was sharper than usual. I rolled my eyes. "Even gifts can find a nice spot in the attic." I muttered. "It doesn't have to sit out here, staring at us!"

My Mom froze for a moment, lifting herself from the coffee table. She shot me one of those mom glares—the kind that sends a chill through your spine. The kind that says everything without a single word. It only lasted a few seconds, but my heart pounded. She took a deep breath before speaking, her voice low and firm. "That clock is staying where it is."

I sighed, getting up from the couch, determined to push her buttons a little more. I stepped onto the cushion, reaching out toward the clock. "Fine, but can I just—"

"DON'T TOUCH IT!" Her scream sliced through the air, and I froze, my hand inches away from the clock. My whole body tensed as I pulled back, feeling a wave of anxious energy radiating from her. I swallowed hard as I stepped off the couch and turned towards her, my voice small. "S-sorry."

She stood there, silent, her breath shaky as she tried to calm herself. After what felt like forever, she finally spoke, her tone cold and clipped. "Good." She grabbed her purse and adjusted her blazer, her movements mechanical. "I'm going to the shops for a bit. Behave yourself." She snatched her keys from the table, the jingle cutting through the tension in the room. As she reached the door, she turned back one more time, her eyes narrowing. "And don't touch that clock."

The door clicked shut behind her, and I collapsed back onto the couch with a frustrated groan. What was the big deal anyway? It's just a clock. An ugly, annoying clock. If she likes it so much, she should just put it in her own room.

I glanced at the crumpled newspaper on the table that my mom had failed to throw away. Reaching for it, I uncrumpled the already worn paper, smoothing out the wrinkles as best I could. The picture of the murder victim stared back at me through the creases.

He died at the same age I am now. Sixteen. Barely a life lived. It was 2002, and my mom had been 16 then too. I wondered just how close she was to Jake Lee. If he was going to be a musician, a bright future had been stolen from him by someone cruel, heartless. The whole headline felt strange, surreal—stabbed for smoking. What kind of world was 2002 that smoking would get you killed? It didn't add up. There had to be more to the story. But this paper, yellowed and fragile, presented it as a cold, hard fact. I couldn't shake the feeling that the truth was buried deeper than that.

Maybe it wasn't even a classmate. Maybe someone from outside the school had snuck in. That's the only theory I can consider. It made more sense than imagining a peer taking things that far.

I glanced at the calendar. The year is 2030. Jake Lee would have been 44 by now, the same age as my mom. His entire life, stolen. "Jake Lee..." I whispered aloud, feeling strange even saying his name. He seemed like a distant, almost unreal figure—yet somehow, the name carried a strange allure, as if I'd known him...

I suddenly caught myself, bewildered. What the hell am I doing? This was a man who'd died nearly three decades ago. I rolled my eyes, crumpling the paper again and setting it down where it had been. What good is dwelling on my mom's past? Thinking about a guy I'd never met, who hadn't even lived to see adulthood.

I sighed and turned to my laptop, the blank document waiting for me. I started typing: the title, date, and a few basic details for the project. I needed to focus on the 2000s part of my assignment. But as I typed, the ticking of the clock kept invading my thoughts, louder than ever. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound scraped against my brain, pausing my fingers mid-sentence.

I looked around cautiously. "Mom's usually at the shops for a while..." I muttered to myself. Standing on the couch, I stared closely at the clock, its face mocking me. "Maybe I'll just turn it off for now."

Slowly, I reached out, my finger brushing the button on top, but the moment I made contact, a sharp shock surged through me, accompanied by a static noise. "Ow!" I pulled my hand back. "What the hell?"

But that didn't stop me. It was just an old clock. Of course, it would shock me. I reached out again, determined this time, refusing to pull away at the next jolt. My finger pressed down on the button, ignoring the small, electric stings. I pushed it down slowly, bracing myself—and then, finally, the ticking stopped. After sixteen long years of living with that constant, grating sound, it was over. I giggled, almost disbelieving. I had faint memories of being a baby, crying from that same obnoxious ticking.

Relief washed over me as I pulled my hand away, but... something felt off. I blinked, noticing a strange white light beginning to surround the clock, growing brighter and larger by the second. "What the..." I leaned in, curiosity taking over, but then the light exploded outward, nearly blinding me.

I stumbled back, disoriented. The ticking returned, but this time it was different—deafening, like it was drilling into my skull. I clutched my head, groaning in pain, as I lost my footing and fell back onto the couch. The light was so bright, my eyes squeezed shut, and the pounding in my head felt unbearable. The ticking grew louder, splitting my thoughts in half, and the world around me seemed to spin out of control.

_____

Everything suddenly stops. The couch feels hard beneath me, and I begin to hear muffled noises. That's strange... I'm home alone. Why does it sound like multiple conversations are happening all at once?

"Hey! Are you okay?" a random voice called out.

I slowly open my eyes, groaning as pain pulses through my head.

As my thoughts begin to clear, I gasp loudly, taking in my surroundings. This isn't my family room couch.

I'm sitting on a hard ground, surrounded by strangers.

"Do you feel all right?" One of the girls asked, while another bends down, hovering over me. "Yeah, you got hit with that baseball pretty hard."

What the...hell?

I spring up from the ground, wincing as I touch my throbbing forehead. "I was... hit?"

"Yeah, it went straight at you." another girl confirms.

What the hell is happening? I groan and rub my forehead, my mind racing. Looking down at myself, I freeze. "Why am I in a school girl uniform?!"

My breathing becomes ragged. Is this a dream? How can it feel so real? One moment I was on my couch, and now I'm here, in some unfamiliar place, with an unfamiliar view. This doesn't even look like my neighborhood.

One of the girls laughed. "Probably because you're a school girl?" She leans forward, examining the bruise on my forehead. "Were you really hit that hard?"

I attempt at catching my breath as I look at the girls, my uniform, and then around at everyone else. The ringing in my ears intensifies. This isn't just any school uniform; it's a specific one.

This isn't my uniform. My school doesn't even require uniforms. My breath catches in my throat as I try to stand steady. "Where... where am I?"

The girls exchange glances, looking at me as if I've suffered serious brain damage. One girl speaks up awkwardly. "At the gates of St. Joseph High."

My gaze stretches in disbelief, a gasp escaping my lips. I can't even comprehend what she just said. As I look around, the realization hits me. It's strange really.

The time... everything feels wrong. Not a single person is glued to their phone in sight. The trends, the atmosphere—they're all off. The constant chatter among peers is overwhelming. And are those flip phones?

I glance down, attempting to balance my nerves as I press a hand against my chest before looking back up at the girls again. I don't want to believe it, suspecting my worst fears, but I have to ask. "What... w-what..." I stammer, looking between them. "What... year is it?"

I gulp deeply, bracing myself for the answer. The girls glance around at each other before one of them looks up at me, smiling awkwardly. "It's the year 2002, silly."

I stagger back, the wind picking up and whipping through my hair. This can't be real. The sounds around me become muffled. I can't think clearly anymore. This is truly my worst fear come true. I can't even stand without a shiver in my legs as I become weak in the knees.

I instantly sprint through the group of girls without another annoying thought, ignoring the one who shouts, "Hey!" But I don't stop.

I look up at the gates ahead. The entrance for St. Joseph High. I've seen it in the newspaper. Is this really happening? Is it truly not a dream if it feels so real?

Weird looks follow me as people stare, bewildered by my frantic rush. I don't care. I charge onto the school grounds, bursting into the hallway. I finally catch my breath as I look forward, stopping in my tracks immediately. There's no way...

My eyes widen in slow motion, blinking slowly. The sound of footsteps echoing harshly in my ears, each one punctuated by my own labored breaths.

A guitar slung over his back, earphones in his ears, hands casually tucked into his pockets. His jet-black hair falls perfectly over his forehead as he walks this way.

It's really him.

Jake Lee.

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