After what felt like an eternity, his sobs slowed, fading into the hollow silence of the room. His breath hitched a few more times before finally settling into a strained, uneven rhythm. He wiped at his face with trembling hands, though the tears had already soaked through his sleeves.

Lifting his head, he blinked, eyes red and swollen, and took in his surroundings for the first time in what must have been hours—or days.

He was sitting on a mound of trash. Crumpled food boxes and empty soda cans crunched under his weight, their edges digging into him through his clothes. The faint hum of flies filled the air, drawn to the rotting leftovers that formed part of the heap. The smell was thick and cloying, a rancid mixture of decay and staleness, so strong it churned his already fragile stomach.

His nose wrinkled in disgust as he shifted, trying to free himself from the filth, but the trash seemed to cling to him, sticky and stubborn. The stench made his head swim, and for a moment, he was sure he’d throw up.

The room itself was barely better. Once, it might have been a cozy space—walls painted in soft, inviting tones, a window that let in sunlight. Now, the window was covered in grime, letting in only a dull, lifeless glow. The walls were streaked with smudges and stains, and the floor—if it was still there beneath the piles of garbage—hadn’t been visible in weeks.

He pulled himself to his feet, wincing as a soda can toppled and clattered noisily to the ground. The noise seemed unnaturally loud, bouncing off the walls and slicing through the oppressive silence.

His eyes wandered to the corner of the room where a cracked mirror leaned against the wall. Hesitant, he stepped toward it, each movement sluggish as if the weight of his grief and the filth around him were dragging him down.

When he finally looked at his reflection, he barely recognized the face staring back at him. Sunken cheeks, wild hair, bloodshot eyes with dark shadows underneath. He looked hollow, a shadow of who he used to be.

As he stared at the mirror, his reflection seemed to ripple, not physically but in his mind. Memories surged forward, vivid and overwhelming, like a dam breaking and flooding him with images that weren’t entirely his.

The boy in the reflection was named Aaron—just like him. But this Aaron carried the surname Heath, not Bright. That single difference felt like a fissure splitting his identity in two.

Aaron Heath was just a normal guy. A boy who had everything Aaron Bright had longed for in his own life—a loving family, loyal friends, and a sense of belonging. Heath’s parents had cherished him, showering him with warmth and encouragement. He had friends who treated him like a brother, who laughed with him and leaned on him as much as he leaned on them.

He was smart, excelling in school, and had a knack for games that made him the center of excitement during late-night gaming sessions. Heath even wore the title of "nerd" with pride, though his friends always teased him for it, laughing at how he owned it with such earnestness.

But then, everything shattered.

The image of Heath’s parents came to him—faces alight with joy—before the memory twisted into the sound of screeching tires, shattering glass, and a car mangled beyond recognition. They were gone in an instant. That moment marked the beginning of the end.

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Aaron Heath had spiraled into depression. The warmth of his home turned into an empty, hollow void. His relatives tried to reach out, offering their support, but it never filled the cavernous ache left behind. His friends came to him, desperate to help, but their words couldn’t penetrate the fog of grief that wrapped itself around his mind.

Heath’s bright, promising world darkened into a cage of fear and despair. Anxiety gnawed at him, and paranoia crept in. He couldn’t stop the thoughts that churned in his head—thoughts of inadequacy, self-blame, and a relentless sense of loneliness. Each passing day became harder than the last, until finally, his body gave in.

Last night, Aaron Heath had died quietly in his sleep.

And now, Aaron Bright stood in his place, carrying the weight of a life he hadn’t lived.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, running a hand through his unkempt hair as he stared at his reflection. His face—their face—looked so much younger, so much more burdened than it should have.

"Looks like you also had it rough, huh?" he murmured to himself, his voice tinged with a sadness he couldn’t fully suppress.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Aaron Bright, who had been abandoned and sold to the church by his own parents, had lived his life in isolation and hardship. And Aaron Heath, who had everything he could have ever dreamed of, had lost it all.

He placed a hand against the mirror, his fingers trembling as they traced the outline of his reflection.

The room seemed quieter now, as if even the air understood the gravity of his words.

For a moment, he simply stood there, absorbing the weight of Aaron Heath’s life. The sadness of it pressed against his chest, but there was also something else—a spark of determination.

"I don’t know why I’m here," he whispered, "but maybe... maybe I can make things right. For both of us."

His eyes hardened as he stepped back from the mirror, brushing away the lingering tears on his face.

Aaron took a deep breath, the stench of the room assaulting his senses once again. He glanced around at the chaos—the piles of trash, the rotting leftovers, and the grimy walls. His nose wrinkled, but instead of despair, a faint, weary smile tugged at his lips.

"Haah," he said softly, shaking his head. "But first, let’s make this place livable again."

It was a small step, but it felt significant. He had no idea what the future held, but if he was going to take on Aaron Heath’s life, he couldn’t do it while surrounded by filth and decay.

He moved to the corner of the room, where a battered broom leaned against the wall, half-buried beneath a pile of discarded cans. With a grunt, he pulled it free, shaking off the sticky residue clinging to the handle. Next, he spotted an old trash bag poking out from under a broken chair and grabbed it, testing its durability before deciding it would have to do.

The work began slowly. His movements were sluggish at first, his body still recovering from the emotional weight of the memories he had just absorbed. But as he started clearing the room—picking up cans, tossing out food boxes, and scrubbing at the sticky stains with a damp rag he found near the sink—something shifted within him.

The act of cleaning felt almost meditative, giving him a sense of control he hadn’t realized he needed. Each piece of trash removed, each surface wiped clean, was like lifting a tiny fragment of the burden pressing on his chest.

Hours passed, the sun shifting in the sky and casting faint rays of light through the grimy window. He paused occasionally, wiping sweat from his brow and glancing at the progress he’d made. The room still had a long way to go, but it already felt lighter, less suffocating.

When he finally finished clearing the last pile of garbage, he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. His muscles ached, and his hands were red from scrubbing, but for the first time in what felt like ages, he felt... accomplished.

The room wasn’t perfect and the walls still bore the marks of neglect—but it was livable.

Aaron took a step back, surveying his work. A genuine smile crept across his face, soft but proud.

"This is better," he said, his voice low but steady. "A fresh start."

He moved toward the window and wiped away the grime with the edge of his sleeve. The light that streamed in was brighter now, illuminating the space with a warm, golden hue.