The Regressor’s Gambit

Thomas Morrison's first sensation was a sharp intake of air, as though his lungs were filling for the very first time. He opened his eyes to a softly lit room, the morning light seeping through partially drawn curtains. For a fleeting moment, he thought he was still in his dingy apartment, that the throes of death had been nothing more than a feverish dream. But something was different. The musty air of his old life had been replaced by a faint freshness he couldn't quite place. His body, once frail and aching, felt impossibly light, almost…alive.

He sat up abruptly, startled by the absence of pain. His once-brittle hands were steady, and his legs, which had barely supported him in his final days, now felt strong and responsive. Disoriented, he scanned the room. The wallpaper was a familiar shade of beige, its edges curling slightly from age. On the desk nearby sat a stack of notebooks, a half-empty bottle of ink, and a calendar displaying the year 1995.

"No…this can't be right," Thomas muttered, his voice firm and youthful—a far cry from the raspy tone he had grown accustomed to. He reached up to touch his face and froze. His skin was smooth, free of the wrinkles and sunken contours that had stared back at him in the mirror for years.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he caught sight of his feet—no longer calloused and swollen, but lean and strong. He took a cautious step, then another, marveling at the absence of stiffness. It was as if decades had melted away in a single breath.

His heart raced, a mix of fear and exhilaration surging through him. "Am I dreaming?" he whispered to the empty room. He pinched his arm, wincing at the sharp sting. The sensation was real, yet it only deepened his confusion.

Thomas turned toward a small wooden dresser cluttered with objects that were both familiar and strange. His fingers brushed over a cracked photograph frame, his younger self smiling back at him with unbridled optimism. He picked it up, staring at a face he hadn't seen in over thirty years.

"This isn't possible," he murmured, shaking his head in disbelief.

His gaze fell on a handheld mirror resting atop the dresser. Tentatively, he lifted it, his hand trembling slightly. The reflection staring back at him was a face he hadn't seen since his twenties. Bright eyes, smooth skin, and a full head of dark hair replaced the haggard, graying man he had been.

A gasp escaped his lips as the weight of realization settled over him. "This…this is real," he whispered. The room seemed to spin as the implications of what he was experiencing hit him like a wave.

He stumbled to the window and pulled back the curtains, the light momentarily blinding him. The view outside confirmed what he dared to hope—a bustling street with cars from decades past, neighbors he hadn't seen in years going about their routines. The smell of freshly baked bread drifted from the bakery down the street, a scent he hadn't experienced since the mid-90s.

Tears welled in his eyes as he clutched the windowsill, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "I'm back," he whispered, his voice quivering with awe and disbelief.

A sudden wave of doubt swept over him. What if this was some cruel illusion, a trick played by his dying mind? He turned away from the window, his breaths quickening. But as he moved through the room, every detail screamed reality—the worn-out carpet beneath his feet, the faint hum of a radio playing a familiar tune, even the subtle ache in muscles unused to such vigor.

Thomas sank onto the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the frame tightly. "Why?" he asked aloud, his voice tinged with desperation. "Why am I here? What does this mean?"

No answers came, only the steady rhythm of his breathing and the distant chatter of a world he thought he had left behind. For the first time in decades, his heart swelled with something he barely recognized—hope.

If this was real, if he truly had a second chance, then perhaps the years of regret and pain could be rewritten. A flicker of determination sparked within him, faint but growing. This wasn't just another day. This was the first day of a life he had thought lost forever.

He stood again, this time steadier, his mind beginning to clear. There would be questions to answer, challenges to face, and wounds to heal. But for now, Thomas focused on the simple act of breathing, each inhale a testament to the miracle he had been given.

The first breath was not just a breath—it was the beginning of a journey he never thought possible