Heat. A kind of heat she’d never felt before.
Elena Morrison’s head throbbed like it was splitting open.
The room was dim, shadows shaking at the edge of her vision, and for a second she honestly couldn’t tell where she was.
Out of the darkness came the heavy scent of a man, close enough to make her breath hitch.
She realized she was lying on a rickety wooden bed.
A thousand questions crowded her mind.
Wasn’t she shot to pieces? Did someone drag her back from the brink? Was it this man hovering over her?
But he was…
Elena tried with everything she had to push him away, yet her arms felt like soaked cotton—no strength at all.
She couldn’t shove him off. And the man seemed half‑mad, lost in whatever fever had hold of him.
Shame and panic rushed up her throat. She bit down hard on his shoulder.
Her mouth filled with the taste of sweat and blood.
The man let out a sharp groan, face twisted in pain.
“Elena, I’m sorry… I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. I swear I can’t stop myself. If you want to kill me, go ahead.”
That voice, rough yet familiar, echoed straight out of the deepest corner of her memory—one she could never scrub away no matter how much time passed.
It was Marcus Sullivan.
A wave of disoriented relief washed over her. Before she could think, she threw her arms around him and burst into tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Marcus… I shouldn’t have betrayed you. I know I was wrong. Please don’t leave me, please… please…”
Marcus, completely out of his mind at this point, didn’t seem to hear a single word—only that she was crying.
“Don’t cry… please don’t cry. I’m an idiot, alright?”
Elena stiffened, a cold jolt cutting through the confusion.
Something wasn’t right.
Elena lifted her head and spotted a kerosene lamp hanging on the packed-earth wall. The flame was no bigger than a bean, barely lighting up a tiny patch around her.
The place… it felt oddly familiar.
Wasn’t this the same rural room she had lived in after her parents sent her to that distant cousin?
Did that mean… she had actually come back?
Yes. The old desk, the windows patched with layers of newspaper, the enamel cup on the table with a chunk of paint missing—
even the stack of college‑exam review papers piled up on the desk.
Every detail hit her with that sharp, aching familiarity.
This was indeed where Elena had lived.
But it was also where her nightmares had begun.
At last, she could see the man’s face clearly.
It was her husband—Marcus Sullivan.
And not just any version of him, but Marcus at twenty.
In the dim light, Elena lifted a hand, pinching her own cheek—soft, smooth, full of youthful elasticity—and everything snapped into place.
Heaven must’ve finally taken pity on her. She had been given another shot, thrown straight back to the 1980s, to when she was eighteen.
Wait—why today of all days?
Was it because this day marked the beginning of her lifelong entanglement with Marcus Sullivan?
Elena would never forget this date.
May 8th, 1983.
School had given them time off for the busy farming season, and it also happened to be the village chief’s fiftieth birthday. Everyone in the village brought a gift and went to celebrate.
Elena, fighting a terrible cold, didn’t go with her cousin and cousin‑in‑law. She stayed home alone, planning to study for the college entrance exam.
But the cold hit her too hard, and she had gone to bed early, exhausted.
