The school bus rumbled along the familiar yet strangely distant streets of Lysander's childhood neighborhood. Seated beside Marco, he found himself studying his friend's animated face as Marco recounted an elaborate tale about his older brother's misadventure with their family computer.
"...and then he tried to tell my parents that the virus came from my educational games, not the weird websites he visits!" Marco laughed, shaking his head. "But Dad works in IT, so that excuse lasted about five seconds."
Lysander smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through him. He'd forgotten this—the simple, uncomplicated joy of friendship untainted by professional agendas or networking opportunities. In his first life, how quickly had he discarded these connections once they no longer served his ambitions?
"Hey, are you listening?" Marco waved a hand in front of Lysander's face. "You keep zoning out today. Is something wrong at home?"
"No, everything's fine," Lysander assured him. "Just thinking about... people."
"People?" Marco raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, like..." Lysander hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I was just realizing I don't spend enough time appreciating the people around me."
Marco's expression shifted from confusion to mild concern. "Are you sure you're not sick? You're talking weird." He placed a theatrical hand on Lysander's forehead. "No fever, but definitely symptoms of being replaced by an alien."
Lysander laughed, gently pushing his friend's hand away. "Not an alien, just... growing up, I guess."
"Well, grow up slower," Marco advised, digging into his backpack and retrieving a slightly squashed candy bar. He broke it in half, offering a piece to Lysander. "My mom says childhood only happens once."
If only you knew, Lysander thought, accepting the chocolate with a nod of thanks.
As the bus continued its route, Lysander's gaze drifted across his fellow passengers, many of whom had been constant presences in his first childhood but whose names and faces had faded from his adult memory. In the back, a group of fifth-graders were huddled around a Game Boy Advance, their excited whispers punctuated by occasional groans or cheers.
Nearer to the front sat a girl with dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, her attention fixed on the book in her lap. Even from this distance, Lysander recognized Erica Santos—the object of his first childhood crush. In his original timeline, they had been study partners throughout fifth grade, her razor-sharp intelligence both intimidating and fascinating to him. He remembered how she would patiently explain mathematical concepts when he struggled, never once making him feel inferior despite her obvious academic advantages.
"Checking out Erica again?" Marco whispered, following Lysander's gaze. "You should just talk to her, you know. She doesn't bite."
Heat rushed to Lysander's face—another involuntary childhood reaction that betrayed him. "I'm not checking her out," he protested, too quickly. "I was just thinking she might want to join our study group for the science project."
Marco snorted. "Sure, that's why you're staring at her like she's got the answers to the universe written on her forehead." He nudged Lysander playfully. "Just admit you like her. Everyone knows anyway."
"Everyone?" Lysander echoed, genuinely mortified.
"Well, me and Paulo and Jin at least," Marco conceded. "But probably not Erica. She's too busy being smart to notice boys yet. My sister says smart girls develop that part of their brain later."
Lysander sighed, both amused and troubled by this reminder of his childhood infatuation. In his first life, nothing had ever come of his crush on Erica. She had moved to another school before sixth grade, and he had gradually forgotten about her as new interests and, eventually, Eliza had entered his life. Now, with adult perspective, he recognized the crush for what it was—an innocent admiration of her intellect and confidence rather than any meaningful romantic attachment.
But the memory served as a sharp reminder that his heart, soul, and future belonged to Eliza. Finding her again was his ultimate goal—his reason for embracing this second chance. These childhood experiences, though precious in their way, were stepping stones on the path back to her.
The bus slowed as it entered their neighborhood, a modest but well-maintained subdivision where most houses bore the distinctive architectural influences of Filipino and Spanish colonial styles, with high-pitched roofs designed to withstand the rainy season and spacious verandas for enjoying cool evening breezes.
"See you tomorrow," Marco said as he gathered his belongings. "Don't forget we have that math quiz!"
"I won't," Lysander promised, watching his friend bound down the aisle to exit at his stop.
Three stops later, the bus pulled up near Lysander's house. As he stepped off, he was surprised to see his mother waiting by the corner, shaded beneath a floral umbrella against the afternoon sun. Her presence there—so ordinary and yet so miraculous to him—momentarily stopped him in his tracks.
Isabel Everett stood with the casual grace that had always characterized her, dressed in a light sundress that swayed gently in the breeze. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, revealing the smile lines around her eyes that Lysander had only seen in photographs for the latter half of his first life.
"There you are!" she called, waving cheerfully. "I thought I'd walk you home today."
Lysander approached her, fighting the urge to throw his arms around her waist and hold on as tightly as his ten-year-old arms could manage. Instead, he managed a casual, "Hi, Mom. You didn't have to wait for me."
"I wanted to," she replied simply, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Besides, I have some exciting news."
They began walking toward home, Isabel matching her pace to his shorter strides. The familiar scent of her perfume—a light, floral fragrance he'd completely forgotten until this moment—enveloped him like a cherished memory suddenly brought to life.
"What news?" he asked, genuinely curious. His adult mind struggled to recall significant events from this period in his childhood.
"Your father got tickets to that science exhibition you've been talking about. The one with the robotics display?" Her eyes sparkled with the pleasure of delivering good news. "We're all going this Saturday—the whole family."
Lysander blinked, momentarily disoriented. In his original childhood, had there been a science exhibition? He vaguely recalled something—a museum event, perhaps, where he'd seen early prototype robots that had fascinated him for weeks afterward.
"That's great!" he exclaimed, infusing his voice with appropriate excitement. "Will Marcus and Sophia want to go too?"
Isabel laughed. "Well, Sophia's not thrilled about the science part, but when I mentioned the food court and shopping complex nearby, she changed her tune. And Marcus is interested in the engineering displays."
As they turned onto their street, Lysander studied their modest two-story home with new appreciation. The house where he had spent his early years had long since faded from his memory, replaced by the sterile luxury of his adulthood penthouse and vacation properties. But now, seeing the slightly worn welcome mat, the cheerful potted plants lining the veranda steps, and the handmade wind chimes his mother had crafted herself, he was struck by how much more like a home this place felt than any of his later residences.
"Mom," he said suddenly, "can we bake something together tonight? Like we used to?" The words tumbled out before he could consider their implication—whether this version of himself had actually baked with his mother regularly or if that was a memory from a slightly different timeline.
Isabel's expression softened with pleasure. "Of course, sweetheart. Your father's working late tonight, so it would be nice to have something special waiting for him. What were you thinking? Bibingka? Or those chocolate chip cookies you like so much?"
"Cookies," Lysander decided, relieved that his request hadn't seemed out of character. "And maybe we can make extra for me to take to school tomorrow? For my friends?"
His mother raised an eyebrow, her smile widening. "Friends, plural? Not just Marco? My little social butterfly is expanding his circle!"
Lysander felt his cheeks warm again—would he ever regain control over these involuntary childish reactions? "Well, there's Paulo and Jin too. And..." he hesitated briefly, "Erica from my class. She helps me with math sometimes."
"Ah," Isabel said knowingly, opening the front gate. "The brilliant Erica. I see."
Before Lysander could protest this characterization, the front door burst open and Sophia bounded out, her fourteen-year-old energy palpable. "Mom! Lysander! Guess what? I got the lead in the school play!"
Isabel gasped in delight. "Sophia! That's wonderful news!"
Lysander watched his sister bounce excitedly on her toes as she detailed her dramatic achievement. In his first life, had he paid attention to Sophia's theatrical aspirations? Had he attended her performances, celebrated her successes? He couldn't remember, and the realization filled him with shame.
"That's awesome, Sophia," he said sincerely. "You'll be amazing."
Sophia paused mid-sentence, looking at her younger brother with surprise. "Thanks, Lysander," she said, her tone softening from exuberance to genuine warmth. "That's... really nice of you to say."
"When's the performance?" he asked. "I want to be there."
The look of pleased shock on his sister's face told Lysander all he needed to know about how he had treated her accomplishments in his original childhood. The pang of regret was sharp, but he pushed it aside. That was the past—or rather, a past that he now had the opportunity to rewrite.
As they entered the house together, Lysander noticed Marcus at the dining table, textbooks spread around him as he worked on what appeared to be complex mathematics problems. His sixteen-year-old brother barely glanced up, offering only a distracted grunt in greeting.
"How was school?" Isabel asked, setting her purse down and moving toward the kitchen. "Any excitement beyond geography class?"
Lysander froze momentarily. "How did you know about geography class?"
"Mrs. Fernandez called," his mother replied casually. "Something about you being distracted by your phone? Not like you at all, she said."
"Oh," Lysander said, mentally calculating how to explain. "I was just making some notes."
"During class?" Isabel's tone remained light, but he recognized the gentle reprimand beneath it.
"Sorry," he offered, genuinely contrite. "It won't happen again."
Isabel studied him for a moment, then nodded. "I trust it won't. Now, homework first, then we'll get to those cookies, alright?"
Lysander agreed, retreating to his room to tackle his fifth-grade assignments. The work was laughably simple to his adult mind, but he forced himself to approach it methodically, taking appropriate time with each problem as a ten-year-old would. The last thing he needed was to draw more attention to himself by suddenly performing at university level.
As he worked, Lysander's thoughts drifted to the family computer, which he knew was located in a small office space downstairs. He would need access to begin researching future investments, technological developments, and—most importantly—to start building a strategy for locating Eliza.
But that would have to wait. Tonight, his priority was his mother—spending time with her, creating memories that would sustain him, and beginning to weave a stronger familial fabric than he had in his first life. The markets, the investments, even Eliza—all of it would still be there tomorrow.
For now, there were cookies to bake, a sister's theatrical triumph to celebrate, and perhaps even a sullen teenage brother to connect with. Small steps on a long journey, but Lysander was beginning to understand that perhaps these seemingly insignificant moments were the ones that mattered most of all.
When he finally set aside his completed homework and made his way downstairs, the warm, inviting aroma of dinner cooking welcomed him. His mother stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled deliciously of garlic and soy sauce. Sophia was setting the table, chattering about costume designs, while Marcus had relocated his study materials to one end of the dining table, still immersed in equations.
"Perfect timing," Isabel said, noticing Lysander. "Dinner's almost ready, and then we can start on those cookies."
As Lysander moved to help Sophia with the place settings, he caught sight of his reflection in the decorative mirror hanging in the dining room. The face that looked back at him was undeniably childlike—round-cheeked, large wide-eyed, untouched by the lines of stress and ambition that had marked his adult countenance. Yet behind those young eyes resided decades of experiences, triumphs, and regrets.
It was a strange duality to reconcile, but as he turned back to his family—his living, breathing, present family—Lysander felt a sense of peace settle over him. The road ahead was long and uncertain, filled with challenges he could only begin to anticipate. But for the first time since awakening in this second chance at life, he felt truly hopeful that he could navigate it successfully—balancing his quest to find Eliza again with the precious opportunity to rebuild the family connections he had so carelessly discarded before.
Later that night, as the house filled with the sweet aroma of baking cookies and the sound of his mother's laughter, Lysander made a silent promise: this time, he would get it right. This time, he would cherish every moment, every relationship. This time, when he finally found Eliza again, he would bring her not just his success and ambition, but a heart made whole by the love of family and the wisdom of second chances.