"Hey, you," came Elena's voice from the speaker—light, teasing, a little too familiar.
The sound hit Peter like a slap to the face.
That voice. That same voice that used to lull him into trusting her.
His jaw clenched.
"Where are you?" she asked, tone playfully scolding.
"The boss has been asking around."
"You can't keep starting your internship by being late, Peter."
"It's only been a week and this is already the second time."
Peter didn't answer. His grip on the phone tightened.
That voice—it hadn't changed one bit.
He remembered how she used to speak to him like this… back when he still believed she actually cared.
And now, here it is again.
The past clawing its way into his ears.
"Peter?" Her voice softened, a shade of concern coating it.
"You there?"
He blinked, forcing his mind back. "Yeah," he said numbly.
"I'm here. Sorry. Got a little… distracted."
A small pause.
Then her voice came again, quieter, more careful. "Is everything okay?"
"You okay?"
That caught him off guard.
He hesitated. "… Yeah. I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" she asked, pushing just a little.
"I heard your mom is in the hospital."
"Must be a lot to deal with. I can tell the boss if you need a day off."
Peter's heart dropped.
'My mom?'
He froze. For a moment, the entire room seemed to be still.
'No... no, this can't be right.'
His thoughts scrambled.
This was that year.
The year everything began to collapse.
The year his mother had fallen critically ill—and he couldn't afford her surgery.
And she… she died.
His breathing quickened.
That was the cruel reality he had buried deep inside him.
But now… now she is still alive.
His mother.
"Elena," he said abruptly, cutting off whatever she was saying.
"I'm fine," he snapped, sharper than he intended. "I'll be in soon."
And without waiting for a response, he hung up, slamming the phone down like it had burned him.
...
For several long minutes, Peter sat frozen in place, his hands trembling in his lap.
The whirlwind inside him raged louder than any sound in the room.
Elena's voice—so casually familiar—had ignited anger inside him, full of rage.
But through that storm of anger… another emotion slowly clawed its way up.
Hope.
The moment Elena mentioned his mother, it was like everything else faded.
That name hit him harder than anything.
His mother—the woman who raised him, comforted him, fought for him—she was still here.
Breathing.
Alive.
After fifteen long, brutal years of absence.
The moment that realization sank in, Peter pushed out of his chair so fast it screeched across the floor.
'I need to see her.'
He didn't waste another second.
He practically sprinted to the bathroom, took a fast cold shower to wake himself up fully, threw on the least-wrinkled clothes he could find, and stuffed his old laptop into his college bag.
In this timeline, he had already graduated from university.
The internship at Wallace Group had just begun—a golden opportunity back then, now just another pit stop on a road he planned to burn to the ground.
Shouldering his bag, he stepped out of his apartment, boarded the nearest public bus, and sat by the window.
The cold morning breeze whipped against his face, but he didn't care.
His eyes scanned the city streets as if seeing them for the first time.
They were so familiar, yet alien.
The posters, the cars, the people—frozen in time, unknowing of the storm coming their way.
'This is my second chance.'
When the bus finally came to a halt, he stepped out and immediately looked up.
Collin's Hospital.
It still looked the same—tall, pristine, and intimidating. The glass façade glinted under the sunlight like it had something to prove.
He stared at it for a long second, jaw tightening.
Everyone in the city knew this place was owned by Thomas Collin, a man with deep ties to Cox Enterprise.
That name alone made Peter's stomach churn, but he shoved it down.
'Not now. That's not what I'm here for.'
He walked past the grand glass doors into the lobby.
The smell hit him instantly—sterile disinfectant mixed with the faint aroma of something too expensive to belong in a hospital.
Nurses in crisp uniforms moved like clockwork. Men in sharp suits whispered into phones.
Even the patients looked like they walked out of a board meeting.
Peter stood in the middle of it all, suddenly unsure.
'Where was her ward again?'
'Right from the lobby?'
'Upstairs?'
The memories felt blurry, jumbled.
He felt out of place.
His shirt, creased from the rushed morning, clung awkwardly to his frame. A few nurses glanced his way—some curious, others mocked.
But he didn't care.
He forced himself to recall the layout.
It had been years, but some things never faded. He moved with cautious purpose, veering toward the left wing of the lobby.
The reception counter was just ahead.
Behind the counter sat a young nurse with bright red nails and stylish brown eyebrows.
Her eyes flicked up, scanning Peter's attire with a look of tired disdain.
"Name?" she asked coolly, like she already wanted him gone.
Peter straightened his back and met her gaze.
There was a tremble in his chest, but his voice was solid.
"Peter Kane," he said.
There was a pause.
Then he added, quieter this time—like saying it out loud would make it too real.
"I'm here to see my mother."
The nurse barely looked up as she scrawled something into the register with disinterest.
"Sign here," she muttered, her tone bored, like she was barely tolerating his presence.
Without even meeting Peter's eyes, she shoved the clipboard toward him.
Peter picked up the pen and signed his name without a word, ignoring the silent judgment gleaming in her narrowed eyes.
Then, she clicked her pen shut and leaned back in her chair with a long, exaggerated sigh.
"You know the drill," she said flatly.
"I'll let the doctor know you're here. That old lady's taking up a bed meant for patients who actually matter."
"So do everyone a favor and get her out soon, yeah?"
Peter froze.
His hand tightened around the pen until it creaked. His jaw locked.
'Old lady?'
'Get her out?'
He stared at the woman, eyes burning with fury.
She didn't even look at him as she slouched lazily in her seat, thumbs tapping away on her phone like nothing she said meant anything.
'You disgusting little…'
But Peter clenched his jaw and held himself back.
'Not now.'
But, a sickness brewed in his gut.
'How could people like this exist?'
'So casually cruel, so heartless, as if empathy had been surgically removed from their souls?'
He didn't know the answer.
Maybe some people were just built that way.
Broken from the inside out.
And maybe they had to exist—so the rest of the world could still have something worth fighting for.
He exhaled slowly, pushing the rage down.
Not gone, just buried.
Turning away, Peter began walking through the polished, overly perfect halls.
Every step echoed too loud.
The cold white lights above made everything feel clinical and soulless, like a palace built to pretend it cared.
Portraits of "Sponsors" lined the walls.
Glass cases full of awards no patient had ever benefited from glinted under the lights.
And everywhere he walked, he felt eyes tracking him—nurses, guards, even patients in suits—like he didn't belong.
But he didn't care.
Because he has something more important to do.
Stopping at a familiar door, he froze. His breath caught in his throat.
'She's on the other side of this door…'
His hand lifted slowly, fingers trembling midair.
'She's really here.'
He hadn't seen her in fifteen years.
He hadn't heard her voice, hadn't felt her hand on his head, hadn't gotten the chance to tell her he loved her before—
He inhaled sharply, hoping to steady himself.
But it didn't work.
His heart pounded against his ribs, wild and unrelenting.
Every memory, every regret came crashing forward like a wave.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
With one final breath, he placed his hand on the doorknob… and pushed it open.