Rena
Professor Finch’s office is a fortress of books. They line every wall from floor to ceiling, a silent, judging audience. He sits behind a massive oak desk, steepling his fingers. He doesn't invite me to sit.
“Ms. Morris,” he begins, his voice low. “Your analysis in class was… unprecedented.”
“It was just math, Professor.”
“Do not be glib with me. That was not just math. That was a leap of intuition backed by a structural theory most of your peers won’t grasp for another ten years. Where did it come from?”
I meet his stare. Lying to this man feels like trying to sneak a pebble past a mountain. “I’ve been studying ahead. I look for patterns. The Vexler design has a beautiful pattern, but it also has a fatal one.”
He leans back, his chair groaning in protest. “You understand the implications of what you said? You publicly accused one of the world’s most respected architects of gross negligence.”
“I accused a design of being flawed. The architect’s reputation isn’t my concern. The physics are.”
A long silence stretches between us. He studies me, his eyes sharp, analytical, like he’s looking for the stress fractures in my own argument. I don't flinch.
“Very well,” he says finally, a strange note of something that might be respect in his voice. “I am putting a note in your file. Not of reprimand. Of commendation. Do not make me regret it.”
“You won’t, Professor.”
He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. I walk out of the office, my heart thrumming. A victory. A real one. But the elation is instantly smothered by a cold, suffocating dread. I look at my phone. Three weeks. I just proved I can see the future of a building. Now I have to prove I can change the future of my family.
I duck into an empty alcove in the hallway and dial my mom’s number. My thumb hovers over the call button. I feel nineteen again, a terrified girl about to tell a crazy lie. The phone rings twice before she picks up.
“Rena! Honey, what a surprise. Is everything okay?” Her voice is warm and familiar, a sound that feels like home.
“Mom. Hi. Listen, I need you to do something for me.” My voice is shaking. I try to control it.
“Of course, sweetie. What is it?”
“The trip. To the lake house. For your anniversary. You can’t go.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “What? Why not? We’ve been planning it for months. Your father just had the boat serviced.”
“I just… I have a bad feeling. A really, really bad feeling. Please. Stay home. We can celebrate here. I’ll cook.”
Her laugh is gentle, concerned. “Rena, what’s this about? Did you have a fight with Alina? Is school stressing you out?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s the trip. The drive. Route 9 is dangerous. Please, Mom. For me. Just cancel it.”
“Honey, we’ve driven that road a hundred times. You’re not making any sense. Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”
Desperation claws at my throat. I sound like a lunatic. I know how I sound. “I had a nightmare. That something happened. It felt so real. I can’t explain it, but you have to trust me.”
“Oh, sweetie,” she says, her voice full of maternal pity. “It was just a bad dream. We’ll be perfectly safe. We’ll call you the minute we get there, how about that?”
“No! That’s not good enough! You can’t go!” I’m almost shouting now, my knuckles white as I grip the phone.
“Rena Morris, you lower your voice. Everything is fine. We are going. We’ll see you Sunday night. I love you.”
“Mom, wait…”
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, a useless black rectangle in my hand. It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t work. She thinks I’m a hysterical teenager. For the next three weeks, I try everything. I call my dad. He’s even more dismissive. “Rena, stop worrying your mother. We’re fine.”
I call my younger brother, Leo, begging him to fake an illness, to create a distraction, anything. He’s only fourteen. He just gets confused. “But Mom and Dad are excited. Why would I do that?”
I try to book a flight home for that weekend, planning to physically block the driveway if I have to, but the flights are all sold out for a university football game. Every door slams shut. Every path leads to the same place. History is a current, and it is pulling them away from me with terrifying force.
On the fated day, I sit on my bed in the dorm room, staring at the clock. I don’t go to classes. I don’t eat. Alina comes in once, takes one look at my face, and leaves without a word. My phone is clutched in my hand. I watch the minutes tick by. Three o’clock. Three fifteen. Three thirty. The time of the accident.
I tell myself it’s different this time. Because I tried. Because I warned them. That has to count for something. The universe can’t be this cruel twice.
At four seventeen, my phone rings.
It’s not my mom. It’s not my dad.
It’s my aunt Carol’s number. Just like before.
My hand is so slick with sweat I almost drop the phone. I swipe to answer. My throat is closed. I can’t speak.
“Rena?” Her voice is thick with tears, broken. “Honey… there’s been an accident.”
The world dissolves into a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The words are the same. The static on the line is the same. The crushing weight that collapses my lungs is the same.
“Your parents… Rena, they’re gone.”
I drop the phone. It clatters to the floor. A choked sob escapes me, a sound ripped from somewhere deep inside. It’s not possible. I failed. My knowledge, my second chance, it was all for nothing. The grief is a physical thing, a monster with its hands around my neck, squeezing.
In my first life, I stayed right here. I curled into a ball on this lumpy mattress and let the world go dark. I let Alina call whoever needed to be called. I let myself break.
But as the darkness threatens to pull me under again, a face swims into my vision. Not my mother’s. Not my father’s. Not even Travis’s.
Leo.
In my first life, he was alone for hours in that silent house. Waiting for our parents to come home. Waiting for someone, anyone, to come for him. I didn’t. Not until the next day.
I push myself off the bed. My legs are trembling. My body is a vessel of pure, screaming pain. But my mind is clear. History repeated itself. But I don't have to.
I grab my keys. I don’t pack a bag. I just walk. Out the door, past a stunned Alina in the common room, down the stairs, and out into the crisp autumn air.
I don’t remember the drive. It’s a blur of traffic lights and street signs. All I see is my little brother’s face. When I pull onto my street, it’s just as I remember. A police car is parked at the curb. Neighbors are whispering on their lawns, their faces etched with pity.
I walk through the front door. My aunt Carol is on the phone in the kitchen, her back to me, her shoulders shaking. A police officer I don’t recognize starts to approach me with a gentle expression.
I ignore them all. I walk straight up the stairs, my feet silent on the runner. I go to his room. The door is slightly ajar.
He’s sitting on the floor, tucked between his bed and his desk. He’s made himself small. He’s not crying. He’s just staring at a model spaceship in his hands, his face completely blank with shock.
He looks up as I enter. His eyes are wide and lost. He looks so young. So alone.
“Rena?” he whispers, his voice small enough to break my heart.
I don’t say anything. I cross the room in three strides and drop to my knees in front of him. I wrap my arms around his thin shoulders and pull him against me.
For a moment, he’s stiff. Then, he collapses. His body starts to shake with huge, silent sobs. He buries his face in my shoulder, and I hold him tighter.
This is it. This is the moment everything truly changes. Not in a lecture hall. Not on a blueprint. Here. In this room, holding my brother.
“I’m here, Leo,” I whisper into his hair, my own tears finally falling. “I’m here. And I am not going anywhere. I promise you.”
