He blinks, the ceiling of his bedroom—their bedroom—coming into focus. The light is wrong. Softer. Morning light, not the harsh, artificial glare of his later years.

His hands clench into fists on the comforter. They’re wrong, too. No scars from the Kamino incident, no stiffness in the knuckles from age. Just the strong, calloused hands of a twenty-six-year-old pro hero at the peak of his career.

The clinking of a plate from the kitchen cuts through the silence. Then, a hum. A soft, off-key melody that stops his heart.

It’s the lullaby. The one he’d hum to himself on the worst nights, the only piece of you he had left.

He sits up too fast, his head spinning. His eyes dart to the digital clock on the nightstand.

March 15. 7:03 AM.