Chapter 1: Five Years of Guilt

Five years ago, I caught my son skipping class to play online games at a gaming lounge, and I drove him back to school.

I remember my truck's engine idling outside that flickering neon storefront, the scent of stale Mountain Dew and microwaved snacks drifting from the open door. My hands clenched the steering wheel too tightly as I watched him slouch across the sidewalk—hood up, earbuds in, that stubborn set to his jaw. I thought I was being a good dad, doing what any parent would.

But that day, the school caught fire, and Tyler became nothing more than a cold, lifeless name on the list of the dead.

The call came in the middle of dinner prep—blue and red lights slashing across the windows, sirens wailing outside. My stomach dropped as I listened to the panicked voice on the phone, the world tilting beneath my feet. Tyler's name was read off in a monotone, official and final. That cold, heavy feeling in my chest has never left me since.

All the classmates who skipped class with him escaped unharmed.

They scattered, safe and sound, not a scrape on them. Their laughter echoed in my ears for years—a cruel soundtrack to my private nightmare.

In other words, it was me, with my own hands, who pushed my son toward death.

I replayed that moment endlessly. If I'd just let him be, just walked past that gaming lounge, he would have been safe. The thought gnawed at me, night after night.

After leaving 56 cigarette butts at the door of the charred classroom, I spent the next five years lost in self-loathing, stumbling through life in a haze.

The janitor must've wondered about the pile each morning, but he never said a word. My fingers grew numb with the cold and the habit, my breath fogging in the early dawn as I stared at the scorched walls. Sometimes, I'd talk to Tyler—just whispers, half-prayers, half-apologies—hoping maybe his spirit was listening. The bitter taste lingered on my tongue, mixing with the cold dawn air as I watched the smoke curl and vanish.

Until today, when I was sorting through my son's things and accidentally discovered a game.

His room always felt frozen in time—basketball trophy, faded Marvel posters, a desk littered with tangled cords. In the bottom drawer, under a stack of old report cards and a half-eaten pack of gum, I found a strange little USB drive. No label, no clue. I turned it over in my palm, feeling that old ache bloom in my chest.

As long as I log in, I can go back to the past.

The words on the readme file were simple, almost childish. I wanted to laugh. Instead, I sat in the glow of his old monitor, heart pounding, feeling the impossible settle over me like a dare.

Back to that gaming lounge, five years ago.

My hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling. Part of me wanted to shut the whole thing down, but another part—some battered, desperate hope—whispered, What if?