"What is happening... how is this possible? Why is Amal alive... am I losing my mind? Am I dead? What in the world is going on?"

Michael's voice trembled with disbelief, his breath shaky as he struggled to grasp the reality in front of him.

**"My God, Michael, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."**

"Who is Michael?" he thought, his confusion deepening.

**"And who is Amal? Is she a girl you’re interested in? Oh, my poor brother, even at your age, you can’t talk to a girl without—"**

Without a word, Michael interrupted his sister by pulling her into a tight embrace. Silent tears streamed down his face, but he kept his sobs quiet, so she wouldn't notice.

"Michael, what’s gotten into you today? Are you—"

"I’m sorry for that. Let's go have breakfast." He quickly wiped his tears and forced a smile, but the weight of the inexplicable memories crashing in on him lingered, clouding his thoughts.

As Michael walked away from his sister, the surrealness of the situation enveloped him like a thick fog. Each step down the old creaky stairs seemed drawn out, as if the world around him had shifted into slow motion. The house he thought he knew now felt like a stranger.

The dimly lit staircase, illuminated by a flickering candle casting long, eerie shadows, seemed colder than he remembered. The wooden beams groaned softly with each of his movements, as though the house itself was whispering secrets from its aged structure.

The air was heavy, filled with the faint scent of burning wood mixed with something metallic—sharp, like blood, stirring distant memories he couldn’t quite grasp. Though the home appeared modest, its silence was unnerving, broken only by the occasional creak, as if the very walls held stories too dark to tell.

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Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he caught a glimpse of the world outside through a foggy, narrow window. The city square lay beyond, a familiar scene—except, it wasn’t. The streets outside bustled with life, but everything looked... off. Workers moved about in heavy, soot-stained clothing, women in worn-out dresses carried baskets, and horse-drawn carts trundled over cobblestone streets.

In the distance, a plume of smoke rose from a large factory—a sight Michael had never seen before. The faint clanging of metal and the hum of machinery echoed through the air, giving the town a strange, industrial atmosphere, clashing with the simpler, quieter place he once knew.

"I don’t understand what’s happening," he thought. "But I need to gather as much information as possible before I do anything. Why is Amal calling me Michael? Amal is alive, but she’s different—her golden hair, her green eyes—no, now she has black hair and brown eyes. What does it all mean?"

"Michael, hurry! Please, Samantha will punish me if I’m late for work. I’ll finish my breakfast on the way!" his sister called out as she rushed out the door, closing it behind her.

"And don’t forget, you’re cleaning the table today!" came her final reminder before the door shut.

Michael stood there, stunned. He spotted the newspaper on the table. "Maybe this will give me some clues."

He picked it up, scanning the headlines: **"First Textile Factory Opens in Town."**

Another headline caught his eye: **"Slave Trader Arrested: Mayor Reassures Public, Promises to Capture Remaining Criminals."**

Then his gaze fell on the date: **August 3rd, Year 1131, Zenith Calendar.**

"What is this...?" he whispered to himself, his pulse quickening. "I’ve never heard of this calendar before. What is going on here?"

The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place in his mind. "It looks like I’m in an era similar to the beginning of the industrial revolution. And if there’s a girl here who looks like Amal and she’s calling me Michael... that means..."

His heart raced as he rushed toward a small room with a mirror. His reflection stared back at him—a stranger’s face.

"Just as I thought... I’ve changed too."His once scarred and battle-worn face was now smooth, his features are the same but unrecognisable to him. He ran a hand through his now-black hair, and his brown eyes stared back at him where once there had been something different.

"The scars… they’re gone," he murmured, touching his face in disbelief."Who am I now?"