Rain fell like a curtain drawn over the dreary streets of Manchester, slicking the pavement and washing the city's grime into its gutters. It was late—too late for most—and James Hargrove pulled his overcoat tighter as he walked the familiar route from the late-night grocer back to his modest flat. A bottle of milk, a loaf of bread, and a packet of tea rustled quietly in his paper bag. Life had become predictable like that—familiar, tired, even comforting in its monotony.
James was fifty-two. He had been fifty-two for almost a year now, and he felt every day of it. His joints ached in the damp. His mind wandered more often than it once did, and his reflections were more numerous than his conversations. He had been a history teacher for nearly three decades—he taught revolutions, kings, the rise and fall of empires. But now, he was a ghost of his former self, newly retired, divorced, and with no children of his own. Even his students, once the lifeblood of his days, were now scattered adults living lives he'd only imagine. He had no one left to impress, no one to disappoint. Just the rain, the silence, and his thoughts.
He turned down Deansgate and paused briefly under the glow of a flickering streetlamp. There were muffled sounds echoing from the alleyway to his right—a scuffle, perhaps. Shouts, then a cry. A child's cry. Sharp, panicked.
James froze.
"Leave her alone!" a small voice squeaked, followed by the unmistakable sobs of a frightened child.
He moved before he thought. The bag dropped from his hands, forgotten, as his feet carried him into the alley without hesitation.
A girl—no more than ten, tangled hair and a torn pink backpack—was backed against the wet brick wall. A man loomed over her, tall and hooded, brandishing a knife in the artificial glow of his phone's flashlight. His shadow warped and twisted like some beast made of smoke.
"Oi!" James bellowed, his voice booming louder than he expected. "Get away from her!"
The man turned, startled. James could see now that the stranger wasn't much more than a teenager himself—thin, twitchy, high or scared or both. The knife trembled in his hand, but he didn't drop it.
"Mind your business, old man!"
James stepped forward. "You're making it mine."
He never intended to fight. He hadn't thrown a punch since university, and that was over three decades ago. But something primal surged in him—a fatherly instinct, perhaps, long dormant and never used.
He lunged.
It was clumsy. He tackled the youth with the full weight of his aging body, knocking them both into the opposite wall. The girl shrieked and scrambled away, backpack dragging behind her. For a moment, James felt a flicker of triumph. He had done it. He had—
A sharp pain. Hot, searing. His side.
He gasped.
The knife.
It had found its mark.
James stumbled backwards, hands clutching his abdomen. The youth, eyes wide, staggered and fled, disappearing into the shadows without a word.
The world slowed.
Blood seeped between James's fingers. He collapsed onto the wet cobblestones, the cold biting into his bones. The girl was gone, safe, he hoped. He lay still, staring up at the slice of dark sky framed by grimy buildings and storm clouds. Rain splattered his face like tears from a god, too late to save him.
Was this it?
His thoughts became disjointed. He remembered the scent of his mother's kitchen. The dusty smell of old schoolbooks. The laughter of his students. A Christmas dinner with his ex-wife before things went wrong. All the small, quiet moments he had never thought to treasure until now.
Darkness closed in.
And then—
Silence.
Not death, though. Not nothingness.
A pulse. A sound. A heartbeat, but not his own. A rhythm out of time.
Then—light. Soft, golden light, warm and strange.
He felt…small.
Lighter.
Different.
James opened his eyes and gasped.
He was lying in a bed. Not a hospital bed—no machines, no antiseptic smell. Just cotton sheets, sunlight through gauzy curtains, and the sound of birdsong. His hands trembled as he raised them to his face.
Smaller.
Softer.
He scrambled out of bed, heart racing. A mirror stood nearby—a tall, antique thing with an ornate frame—and what he saw made his knees buckle.
A child.
Ten, maybe eleven. Pale skin, short black hair, wide blue eyes. Not a stranger's face, exactly. Familiar in a haunting, impossible way.
He turned and looked around the room. Toys, books, and drawings taped to the wall. A closet slightly ajar, revealing school uniforms. Everything was foreign. Nothing was his.
But the face staring back at him?
It was.
Somehow, in some unfathomable twist of fate, James Hargrove had awoken in the body of a child.
Not just any child—he could feel it in his bones. This was him. Or had been. Or could be.
Memories that weren't his own flickered at the edge of his mind—laughter, games, a woman's voice calling from downstairs.
A voice.
"Alex?" it called.
James froze.
"Sweetheart, breakfast is ready!"
Alex.
His name was Alex.
James didn't know how or why, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
He had died in an alley in Manchester protecting a little girl.
And now…
Now, he had been given another chance.
A new life.
But to what end?
He turned away from the mirror and took a deep breath, the weight of a thousand questions pressing on his tiny chest.
Who was Alex?
Where was he?
And why had he been brought here?