ONE DAY AT A TIME

Tava Choi found himself floating in an ethereal void, his consciousness adrift among the stars. Panic gripped him as he realized he had no physical form.

He could only perceive the vastness of space, the swirling colors, and the kaleidoscope of lights that surrounded him. Fear clenched his insides, and he desperately tried to move, to do anything, but he was immobilized, a mere observer in this surreal existence.

In front of him, the Scribble Codex, his grandfather's mysterious book, levitated, its pages turning one by one. Each page transformed into wisps of white smoke that seeped into his soul. Tava Choi felt a mixture of fascination and terror. Was this the afterlife? Had he died in his sleep, his soul now condemned to this endless expanse?

He longed for the familiar weight of his body, for the grounding sensation of his feet on solid ground. But all he had was the intangible experience of being a consciousness floating in nothingness. He tried to calm himself, reminding himself of the science fiction novels he had read, but the reality of his situation was overwhelming.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly as he waited for the pages of the Codex to turn.

The swirling colors around him danced and twisted, creating a disorienting spectacle. Tava Choi wished for sleep, hoping that he would wake up from this bizarre nightmare, but sleep eluded him. There was no relief, no escape from the relentless passage of time in this formless void.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Codex reached its last page.

Tava Choi held his breath, anticipation and dread building within him. The book disintegrated into a wisp of smoke, which entered his soul with a searing, electrifying pain. Tava Choi screamed, a sound that reverberated through the emptiness around him.

His life played before his eyes like a rapid, disjointed movie.

He witnessed his struggles from childhood, the taunts and jeers of classmates and teachers who didn't understand his ADHD. He saw himself battling the distractions that plagued him, fighting to focus on his studies. The rejections, both from job applications and potential partners, stung anew. The pain he felt, both physical and emotional, was excruciating.

Amidst the chaos of his memories, a blinding light enveloped him.

Instinctively, he shielded his eyes with arms he didn't realize he had. When the brilliance subsided, he found himself back in his room, drenched in sweat and shame. The stench of urine filled the air, a testament to his fear-induced loss of control.

Tava Choi blinked, disoriented and overwhelmed.

He scanned his room in disbelief, searching for any sign that what he had experienced was real. His eyes landed on the empty space on his bookshelf where the Scribble Codex used to be. It was gone, leaving him in a state of bewilderment.

Reality crashed over him like a tidal wave.

Had it all been a dream?

Or had he truly undergone some kind of cosmic transformation?

Tava Choi trembled, uncertain of what had just occurred. Little did he know, his life was about to take an unimaginable turn, setting him on a path he could never have anticipated.

Days after that bizarre and terrifying night, Tava woke up in a pool of sweat and my own shame.

The nightmare that had shaken my very soul felt like a distant echo, but the wetness beneath me was a stark reminder that it had indeed happened. The taste of fear still lingered on my tongue as I pushed myself up from the soaked mattress, my heart pounding in my chest like a relentless drum.

With trembling hands, I wiped the sweat from my brow and glanced around my room, my sanctuary from the world outside.

My gaze fell upon the table where my keyboard and mouse sat, the tools of my trade. Frustration boiled within me, a potent concoction of fear and anger. I smacked the table, a primal urge to release the tension that had coiled within me. Almost hitting the keyboard, I paused, my eyes widening at the near miss. In a moment of bizarre tenderness, I leaned down and pressed my lips against the keys, muttering an apology to the inanimate object.

Breaking it would mean borrowing from my parents, and their money always came with strings attached – strings that pulled at my already frayed patience.

My parents, now retired and blissfully unaware of my nightly terrors, were enjoying their pension years. Their nagging was relentless, fueled by the belief that my single, middle-aged status was a personal affront to their dreams of grandchildren. I could almost hear their voices in my head, their well-meaning but infuriating suggestions on how to find a wife. If only they knew the depth of my insecurity, my inability to approach a woman, let alone form a meaningful connection.

I might look like a fat tadpole, but I refused to lower my standards just to end my single status and satisfy their desires for grandchildren.

Forgetting the nightmare that had haunted me, I immersed myself in my work. I had a bunch of book reports to complete, commissioned jobs from the patrons of my social media page, "Pakaplog." Despite my less-than-ideal physique, my research skills were unparalleled, earning me a cult following of 10k followers.

I cared little for their adoration; what mattered to me were the clients who appreciated my abilities and were willing to pay for them.

In the midst of my work, I received occasional spam DMs from faceless critics, deriding my ethics and the services I provided for lazy students. Initially, I had replied, defending my work with vigor. But as time passed, boredom crept in, and I let their words wash over me like meaningless chatter.

The worst offenders found themselves banned from my page without a second thought.

My interactions with clients were conducted anonymously through an online Insta-pay account. Money exchanged hands without revealing our identities – a system that suited my solitary lifestyle perfectly. I found solace in the transactions, in the validation that came with being paid for my expertise. The rest of the world could keep its judgments and expectations; I had my own realm, a digital sanctuary where my skills were recognized and respected.

As I delved into my work, the nightmare receded further into the recesses of my mind.

I focused on the task at hand, my fingers flying over the keyboard, translating my thoughts into coherent analyses of various literary works. The hum of the computer, the click-clack of the keys, and the occasional notification chiming from my social media page formed a comforting symphony that drowned out the echoes of my fears.

In this world of virtual connections and digital transactions, I found a semblance of control, a semblance of purpose. The nightmarish ordeal might have shaken me to my core, but in the glow of my computer screen, I felt a flicker of confidence. As long as I had my skills and my clients, I could navigate the complexities of my existence. The nightmare, for now, was just a fading memory, a distant shadow in the corner of my mind.

I embraced my work, my refuge, and pushed aside the haunting uncertainty that threatened to consume me once more.

I had fallen asleep again, my head resting heavily on the desk, my consciousness drifting into the abyss of dreams. But this time, it was different.

This time, I found myself surrounded by an otherworldly sight: spiderwebs made of golden light encircled me. It was both beautiful and terrifying, an intricate tapestry of fate woven before my eyes. Curiosity guiding my trembling fingers, I touched the strands, and suddenly, memories flooded my mind.

I saw dates and events, my own history laid bare before me.

Each golden thread represented a significant moment in my life. The day my beloved dog Popcorn came into my life, the moment my grandparents passed away, and the day my grandfather gave me the Scribble Codex. The memories danced before my eyes, vivid and sharp, like scenes from a long-forgotten movie.

Yet, amidst the golden threads, there were others, grey and foreboding.

Instinct told me that I wasn't ready to touch those yet, that they held secrets and truths I wasn't prepared to face. As I touched these threads, they turned even darker, as if to warn me away.

I couldn't help but focus on the thread that led to the day my grandfather gave me the mysterious book. With a hesitant touch, the air around me shimmered, and I was sucked into a swirling vortex. Before I knew it, I was back in my childhood home, the air thick with the scent of nostalgia and my grandfather's comforting presence.

In this strange replay of the past, I found myself uttering new words, words I had never said before.

I thanked my grandfather for the book, but this time, I added heartfelt sentiments. I told him how lucky I felt, how much I loved him, and how I wished he could be there to see me grow, to witness me getting married and having children.

It was as if my soul was rewriting history, adding layers of love and gratitude that had always existed but had never been expressed.

My grandfather, in his usual gruff yet tender manner, ruffled my hair and chided me, telling me not to turn him into a nanny. I hugged him tightly, savoring the familiar smell of his old books and tobacco. "I love you so much, Grandfather," I whispered, my voice cracking with emotion.

Before I could fully grasp the significance of my words, an invisible force tugged at my soul once more. I shouted into the void that I would make my grandfather proud, that I wouldn't be a loser anymore. His eyes bore into mine, questioning my newfound determination, but he said nothing.

Then, darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke up abruptly, my body slouched over the table, tears streaming down my face. My cries had been so loud that the neighbors were banging on the walls, shouting obscenities for me to shut up. I wiped my tears, my mind reeling from the intensity of the emotions I had experienced. It felt as if I had lived a lifetime in those moments, as if I had rewritten my very essence.

As I caught my breath, I realized that something within me had changed.

A newfound determination burned in my chest, a resolve to honor my grandfather's memory and the love he had shown me. I returned briefly to that <Soul Dimension> and touched the place where the golden threads are and found that the event has a new icon image, it was the moment when I uttered the new lines that I didn't say to grandpa in the past.

Was the past overwritten?

[Few days have passed and after careful planning....]

Time hung heavy on my shoulders as I stood in my previous past again, only this time to a young boy age of five, exploring the world with wide eyes and a heart full of dreams.

The familiar surroundings of our dingy living room greeted me, the faded wallpaper peeling at the edges, and the musty scent of old furniture filling the air. This was the day I first became aware of my existence, a pivotal moment that now held the key to changing my future.

I glanced around, taking in every detail.

There, in the corner, a mouse darted across the room, a reminder of the semi-slum conditions we lived in. Insects and pests were our unwelcome companions, and the struggles of that time were etched into my memory. My parents had decided to move when I started school, a decision that demanded countless loans and overtime work to repay.

It was a period of hardship and sacrifice, a chapter in our lives that I both loved and hated.

I knew my mother worked at a nearby school, her daily journey a walk through the chaos of the 80s, marked by constant brownouts and civil unrest. I often accompanied her, for babysitters were a luxury we couldn't afford, and my aunts and uncles were busy with their own lives.

Those days were a blend of fear and resilience, a dichotomy of emotions that shaped my young mind.

With determination burning in my heart, I grabbed a magazine, its date matching the one on the icon that had brought me here. It was a tangible link to the past, a bridge between the world I knew now and the one I hoped to change. My mind raced with thoughts of altering the future, of molding myself into someone better, someone stronger.

I hastily scrawled a schedule on a piece of bond paper, my hand clutching crayons with determination.

The plan was clear: 100 pushups, 100 squat thrusts, 100 sit-ups, and the equivalent of a 10km run by jogging in place, everyday and never ever forget.

It was a rigorous routine, a stark contrast to my lazy habits. I had to change my physical self, hoping that the change would echo through time and reflect on my present.

My family, noticing my newfound dedication, stared at me in bewilderment.

My aunts and grandma exchanged concerned glances, while my uncles teased me about my love handles. But I didn't let their words deter me. I needed to stick to this plan, to forge a different path for myself.

ADHD had always been a hurdle, making focus and consistency elusive goals.

But I clung to the schedule I had created, my eyes fixated on the crayon markings. It was my lifeline, my way out of the cycle of mediocrity that had plagued my life. The echoes of future failures pushed me forward, fueling my determination to change my destiny.

Prayers whispered on my lips, I embarked on my newfound routine.

The bond paper became my beacon, guiding my efforts in the dim light of our living room. The pushups strained my arms, the squat thrusts tested my endurance, and the sit-ups challenged my core. The imaginary 10km run was a marathon of determination, each step a testament to my resolve.

Day and night, I stared at my crude schedule, my focus unyielding.

It became my ritual, my salvation.

The past couldn't be changed, they said.

Science scoffed at my attempts, labeling them as mere fantasies. Yet, here I was, a five-year-old boy with crayons and a dream, determined to rewrite the future.

I could only hope that my plan, my fervent desire for change, would ripple through time and transform me into the person I longed to be. The odds were against me, but in the depths of my soul, I held onto a flicker of hope.

A hope that whispered, against all reason, that maybe, just maybe, I could alter my fate and emerge victorious from the life battles that lay ahead.