The inheritance letter included one condition he couldn’t legally refuse. He had to recreate, in exact detail, his twelfth birthday. Not “similar.” Not “close enough.” Exact. There was a checklist. Cake flavor: chocolate with strawberry icing (store-bought, slightly smudged). Guests: 14 (including “that kid Daniel you didn’t like”). Entertainment: magician (must fail trick #3). Weather: “light rain preferred.” “What is this?” he asked the lawyer. “Binding clause,” she said. “If any detail is incorrect, the inheritance is void.” “This is insane.” “Yes,” she said. “But it’s also notarized.” So he did it. Tracked down old classmates. Hired a magician willing to mess up on cue. Ordered the exact same cake from a bakery that barely remembered the recipe. Even Daniel showed up. Still annoying. By the time it started raining, he felt something tightening in his chest. Not dread. Recognition. They sang. He blew out candles. For a moment—just a moment—everything aligned perfectly. Like it had before. Like it always had. “Make a wish,” someone said. He hesitated. Then did. The lights flickered. The room felt… smaller. Wrong. “You got it right this time,” Daniel said quietly. “What?” Daniel smiled. “Took you long enough.” The magician’s trick failed. Exactly on cue. Everything snapped. He woke up in bed. His childhood bed. Heart racing. The party was gone. The guests were gone. The house was quiet. On his desk sat a folded piece of paper. A receipt. Cake purchase. Date: next year. And that’s how he ended up back in his childhood bedroom, holding a receipt dated next year.