I exit the bathroom wrapped in a towel just as my father steps out of his bedroom, already dressed for work. His eyes widen slightly, his eyebrows lifting in surprise, just like they always do when he sees me awake and moving toward my bedroom instead of still buried under my sheets. I can’t blame him. In my original timeline as a teenager, I rarely got out of bed on time without a symphony of shouts, threats, and the occasional bang on the door. But that changes today, or rather, it’s changed for good. He’ll notice the difference over time, piece by piece, but for now, his surprise is still fresh.

“You’re up early. I didn’t even hear your alarm,” he says, his voice laced with a smile. His words are warm, familiar, the same ones he uses every single time.

I shrug, playing my part in the script. “I had a bad dream, and it woke me up. Since I was already up, I finished my homework and decided to get a head start.”

“Good—” But like clockwork, my sister’s door swings open, and she emerges with the same bleary-eyed glare, completely ignoring our existence as she heads straight to the bathroom. She vanishes inside without a word, and we both know she won’t reappear for another hour. Dad raises an amused eyebrow at me, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Like I was going to say, good planning, or else you might be late for school again. I don’t think that caterpillar will be emerging out of there until she’s transformed into her butterfly self.”

I smile at him, the expression feeling like an echo of so many past mornings. The dialogue rarely changes, and there’s something oddly comforting—and tragically inevitable—about that. Maybe it’s because I’ve had so little time to affect this timeline; the first week is always nearly 100% predictable. I shouldn’t find comfort in the knowledge of my sister’s death, but I do. It’s a fixed point in the chaos of my existence, a certainty in a world where everything else is fluid. Maybe that’s sick, or just another sign that my mind isn’t as intact as it used to be. But knowing how things will play out gives me something to anchor myself to, even if it’s horrible.

“I still love her,” I reply, the words coming out by rote, “she’s a force to be reckoned with. Do you want me to make us some breakfast?”

Dad gives me a look, half puzzled, half amused, like he’s seeing me for the first time. And in a way, he is. I’m not the son he knew; I’m someone different, someone who’s lived and relived these moments so many times they’ve worn grooves into my mind. But he relaxes and nods, falling back into the familiar rhythm. “Nah. You go get dressed, and I’ll cook you up a few eggs. Sound good?”

“That would be great. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

I reenter my room and pull on the same old clothes I’ve worn a thousand times before—clothes that I’ve come to despise for their repetitiveness, their bland, mundane familiarity. I grab my backpack and set it aside, knowing there’s one more task to complete before I head downstairs. My sheets are still damp from the sweat of my nightmare, clinging to the bed like a reminder of the fear that never quite fades. I strip the bed down, roll the sheets into a tight bundle, and make my way to the laundry room.

In the quiet hallway, the floorboards creak beneath my feet, a sound I’ve come to expect. I load the sheets into the washing machine, each motion deliberate and practiced, as if I could scrub away the remnants of my anxiety along with the stains. It’s almost muscle memory by now—nightmare, sweat, strip the bed and wash it away. If only all my problems were as easy to clean up.

With that task done, I head to the kitchen, where the scent of sizzling eggs is already wafting through the air. My stomach grumbles in anticipation. Each step feels like a reenactment, a performance I know by heart, and as I round the corner, I see Dad at the stove, humming softly as he cooks. It’s a scene I’ve seen countless times, but there’s something strangely comforting about it, even now.

The toast popped up, golden brown and steaming, and I waved my father off as I grabbed the slices and slathered them with butter, watching it melt and soak into the crisp surface. I set the plates on the table, the clinking sound echoing softly in the kitchen’s quiet. “Milk?” I asked, reaching for the fridge. Dad shook his head, and I grabbed the milk for myself and the water jug for him, pouring us each a drink. The cool liquid splashed against the sides of the glasses, a mundane sound that somehow grounded me in the moment. I sat down, waiting for the eggs to finish cooking, the smell of melting cheese already wafting through the room.

“Dad, my car was having issues starting yesterday, so I’m going to take the bus today,” I said casually. “I’ll take a look at it after school.”

“Do you need any help? I can look at it this morning,” he offered, always ready to lend a hand.

“Nah. I’m sure it’s just a clogged fuel line. I’ll pop the hood and look after school. It shouldn’t be that difficult. Plus, you’ve got to get to work soon, or you’ll miss the bus.”

Dad glanced at the clock on the wall, then nodded as he scooped up a generous serving of scrambled cheesy eggs and dished them onto our plates. “Yeah. I’ll help you out if you’re still having issues when I get home.” I nodded back. We’ve had this conversation so many times that it flows naturally, like a script we both know by heart.

To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure why I wanted to ride the bus with my sister this time around. I’ve tried to save her so many times, and it’s not like I’d make a difference now. The first time she died, she was checking the mail at the mailbox. The next time, she was killed by a tire that flew off the truck and struck her down. At first, I thought it was some sort of cosmic joke—the number of creative ways that damn truck managed to kill my sister was almost absurd. But over time, I’ve come to accept that, for whatever reason, fate was done with her story.

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Maybe her death is the sole reason for my revenant existence. Maybe I’m like a lich, and she’s my phylactery, my anchor to this world. Does Steph have to die for me to live? I shook my head, trying to shake loose the morbid thought as I ate my breakfast, the eggs soft and cheesy but tasteless in my mouth. I’ve been down this road too many times to be bothered by the idea of her death. When I set my fork down and looked up, Dad was sitting there with his own fork halfway to his mouth, staring at me with a furrowed brow.

“Zander, are you alright?”

“I have a lot on my mind.” Although we’ve had this conversation at least a dozen times, something in his eyes looked different today. For some reason, Dad didn’t stick to the script.

He sat there for a moment, his gaze distant as if he were wrestling with a decision, before finally lowering his fork back to his plate. “You know… I think we should play hooky today. What do you say we go hunting this morning? Too many damn people are out there hunting on the weekend, and we’ve yet to bag a mule. What do you say?”

“But…”

“I’m allowed to take a personal day here and there, and nothing is pressing at work. It’s still early in the school year; I doubt you have any major assignments due this morning. Right?”

I opened my mouth in shock, then closed it again. In all the hundreds of times I’ve lived through this day, this hadn’t happened before. “What about taking Steph with us?” I asked, feeling a strange mix of hope and dread welling up in my chest.

“Ha! If you want to drag her around the woods, then sure. But I don’t think she’ll go. She’s not much for the outdoors,” he chuckled.

I nodded, but my mind was already spinning, racing to keep up with the possibilities this new scenario presented. Dad looked so pleased with himself, like he’d just cracked the code to parenting, his smile broad as if he’d solved the biggest riddle all parents struggle with: how to pull your brooding son out of his funk. In all my lifetimes, I’ve never figured that one out. Maybe this was just him trying something different, a father’s desperate attempt to reach out. But my thoughts kept veering in a different direction, faster and faster. This was new—something I hadn’t seen before. What if this could break the cycle?

What if this was the way out? My heart picked up speed at the thought. The repetition, the endless loop—it all centered around Steph’s death. I’d seen her die in more ways than I could count, each time as inevitable as the next. But what if this time I could get ahead of it? If I could just get her out of the way, away from the bus, from the truck, from whatever twisted fate had in store for her today... Maybe, just maybe, this was my chance.

Dad’s idea had opened a door I hadn’t even considered before. Maybe it wasn’t about solving the mystery of why I kept coming back, or even figuring out some grand cosmic purpose. Maybe it was simpler than that—keep her alive, keep her safe, and finally break free. I knew Steph wasn’t the outdoorsy type, but I had to find a way to get her to come with us. If she was with us, in the middle of the woods, away from all the variables that fate could twist against her, maybe—just maybe—she’d live.

I looked at Dad again, his face still glowing with that rare, smug confidence, and I couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope. It was like a tiny crack in the wall of inevitability, and I wasn’t about to let it close up again. I nodded slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. “Okay, Dad. I’ll see if I can convince her to come along.”

—

I waited, the seconds ticking by slowly, as I could hear the faint hum of the shower running in the bathroom down the hall. My mind was spinning through every possible way to convince Steph to come with us. She’d never gone for this sort of thing before—missing school just wasn’t her style. She was the kind of girl who thrived on her social life, on being seen, on being involved. And here I was, about to ask her to ditch all of that for a day in the woods with me and Dad. I needed to be smart about this.

When the water stopped, I stood up, bracing myself. The bathroom door creaked open, and Steph emerged, her hair wrapped in a towel, her face still half-hidden behind a cloud of steam. She walked past me without a glance, focused on rummaging through her dresser for clothes. I leaned against the doorframe, trying to sound casual. “Hey, Steph. So… Dad’s got this wild idea that we should all play hooky today and go hunting. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m thinking maybe you should come with us.”

Steph barely looked up, her expression already skeptical. “Play hooky? Are you serious, Zander? I’ve got stuff to do at school. Besides, hunting isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.” She pulled a t-shirt out of a drawer and tossed it onto her bed, clearly dismissing the idea. This wasn’t going to be easy.

I pushed on, trying to keep my tone light and persuasive. “I get it, I really do. But listen, if you skip today, I’ll cover for you. I’ll make sure you don’t miss anything important. I’ll get your assignments, tell people you’re out sick or something. Plus, I’ll owe you big time. Anything you need—a ride somewhere, help with your homework, whatever. Just this once, let’s do something different, you know? I’ll make it worth your while.”

She paused for a moment, considering my offer, but then shook her head, her lips twisting into a faint smirk. “Seriously, Zander? You think I need help with my homework? And who cares what you say, people will notice if I’m not there. You’re not going to sweet-talk me into this one.” Her tone was light, but there was a finality to it that I recognized all too well. My heart sank a little. The practical angle wasn’t going to cut it.

I took a deep breath, realizing I needed to change tactics. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’m not gonna be able to bribe you into this.” I let out a short laugh, trying to ease the tension. “But seriously, think about it. When was the last time we did anything together as a family? I mean, really together. Dad never takes a day off work, and I can’t remember the last time we spent time with him doing anything other than the usual routine. I know it sounds corny, but this might actually be kinda fun. Something different, you know?”

That seemed to catch her off guard. She hesitated, her eyes narrowing as she looked at me, maybe trying to figure out if I was serious. “Dad actually wants to take a day off? Just to spend time with us? I thought he was all about work these days,” she said, her tone softer, a little more thoughtful.

“Yeah, I think he really needs this,” I said, leaning in a bit, sensing a shift. “And maybe we do, too. Just one day to break out of the routine, get some fresh air, and do something that might end up being kind of special. Besides, you know he’ll be thrilled if we both go. It could be a good memory for all of us. What do you say?”

Steph didn’t answer right away. She looked at me, then down at the clothes scattered on her bed, and I could see her weighing it out in her mind. For a moment, I wasn’t sure which way she’d go, but I held my breath, hoping that this one small change might be enough to rewrite the story.