Pitch black.That's all he saw.
The silence was oddly serene—too serene for someone who just fell twenty feet wearing a mecha suit that weighed like a sack of bricks. He tried to blink but couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. Everything was still, a void.
"Great," he thought sarcastically. "So this is it? This is how I go out?"
It was confusing, really. He'd been playing with his life for years—his mother's words, not his—but he always thought he'd at least get to retire before he bit it. Maybe take up a desk job, yell at the next generation of reckless stuntmen from a director's chair. But no, apparently he had to fall off a wall because some guy was standing on the edge listening to his Walkman instead of securing the rig.
Harry swore to himself: If I wake up in a hospital bed, I'm decking that guy. I'll crawl if I have to.
He'd been in the middle of a shoot. Standard action scene, middle-budget sci-fi flick. The actors were lounging in their trailers, sipping lattes, while he climbed up a wall dressed in a clunky, full-metal mecha suit, praying his knees wouldn't give out. One misstep, one unsecured rope, and now here he was… floating in nothingness.
"Is this limbo? Or did they finally digitize the afterlife?"
He tried to move, twitch a finger, anything. Nothing responded.
Panic started to creep in, slow and cold, like water trickling down his spine.
Focus, he told himself. Family. Think of family.
But when he tried, his thoughts—usually so sharp—fractured. Cracked. He could feel the memories, but they were slipping through his fingers like sand. His mother's face? A blur. His father's voice? Echoes. Something—someone—was trying to overwrite it all.
"No. No. NO."
It was like two film reels spinning at once in his mind. On one side: stuntman Harry. Late twenties. Constant bruises. Rent overdue. Coffee addict. Dead. On the other side? A warm kitchen. Laughter. Soccer balls. A woman humming. A man in a white coat. A little boy.
That boy is me, the thought came unbidden.
He wasn't Harry anymore.
"I am… Nate."
But no, he was Harry. Or—was he both?
Suddenly, the darkness shattered.
He gasped.
The air was sharp and sterile, tinged with disinfectant and something that vaguely reminded him of lemon floor cleaner. His back ached in that particular way only cheap plastic beds could provide. He knew that feeling well.
Hospital.
Had he made it?
Blinking rapidly, he tried to sit up, but pain pulsed behind his eyes like a drumbeat. He winced.
Then a voice, gentle and British, cut through the fog.
"Oh, he's waking up. Nate? Sweetheart, can you hear me?"
He turned his head. A woman leaned over him, auburn hair tied in a ponytail, eyes wide with worry. Beside her stood a man in a white coat with reading glasses perched on his nose, looking equally concerned but composed.
His mind lurched. Recognition bloomed—then clashed.
Mom and Dad?
But those weren't his parents. Not Harry's.
Those were Nate's.
"Where…" His voice came out hoarse. High-pitched. Wrong.
"You fainted, love," the woman—his mum—said, brushing hair from his forehead. "You were playing football and took quite the hit to the head. Gave your friend Jack a right scare."
Football?
Not stunt work. Not a set. Not even 2025.
Then the man—his dad, Dr. Taylor—spoke calmly. "It's a mild concussion, Nathaniel. Nothing too serious, but we'll keep an eye on you for the next few days, alright?"
Nathaniel.
That name echoed in his mind, bouncing off walls that hadn't existed until now. He was Nathaniel. Nate. Eight years old. A quiet kid who loved sketching dragons in his notebooks and hated broccoli. He lived in Richmond, southwest London, with two loving parents in a nice brick house with a backyard and a golden retriever named Rusty.
But he was also Harry. Twenty-nine years old. A stunt double with a cracked rib and no savings account. A man who sacrificed his dream of acting to support a sick father.
Two lives. One body.
"How old am I?" he whispered, mostly to himself.
"Still eight, thank goodness," his mum said with a chuckle, clearly thinking he was just dazed. "No skipping birthdays in your sleep."
Harry—Nate—leaned back into the stiff pillow, letting his new reality settle in.
He had died. In one life. And in another, he'd just been knocked out by a rogue football during recess.
Hours later, after being discharged with some painkillers and a list of things to avoid, he sat in the backseat of his dad's Rover, watching the trees blur past through the window. Richmond looked familiar in a strange way—quaint, clean, and unmistakably early '90s.
Everything was analog. The car radio was playing Oasis. People on the street wore denim jackets and Walkmans dangled from belts. No smartphones. No Wi-Fi. No streaming.
And he remembered it all.
From the other side.
His brain throbbed every time he tried to hold both sets of memories together, like trying to overlay two jigsaw puzzles with half the pieces missing. But one thing was clear:
This was real. He was alive. Again.
And he had knowledge no one else did.
Songs that hadn't been written yet. Films that would go on to become blockbusters. Technology that hadn't been invented. Business opportunities that would shape the world. Even stock trends.
He clutched the seatbelt, heart pounding. This was a second chance.
He could be more than a nameless stuntman. He could be the star. The director. The writer. The legend.
All he had to do… was wait.
And prepare.
He stared out the window as Richmond passed by, ordinary and peaceful.
"Let's get you home, champ," his dad said warmly.
Nate smiled. "Yeah. Let's go home."