Chapter 1

The moment I fell from the twenty-third floor, the wind roared past my ears. What flashed before my eyes wasn't my life replaying itself, but her—Emma Lane.

At eighteen, she stood by the airport security gate in that old jacket so worn it had faded pale, her hair tousled by the wind, her eyes red as she told me, "Michael, I'll wait for you."

That was ten years ago.

At twenty-two, I had no idea where she was, only that I'd heard she'd gotten into a great college. At twenty-three... I didn't know. From that day on, I never dared ask again.

But the truth was, I did know. I knew she died at twenty-three.

In my third year abroad, Charlie said something to me over the phone. I've never forgotten it. I just forced myself to bury it.

After I hung up, I lay in my rented apartment overseas for three straight days. No food, no water, just staring at the ceiling. On the fourth day, I got up and told myself, "Forget her. She's dead. You still have to keep living."

For the next ten years, I really did "forget." I got married, got promoted, bought a house, and lived what people called a good life.

But every time I got drunk, every time I passed out at my desk after a late night at work, every time I sat alone in my car at a red light, she came back to me.

Wearing that same washed-out old jacket, eyes red, standing at the airport security gate, asking me, "Michael, are you coming back?"

I never answered her, because I didn't know the answer.

Now I do.

I would come back. I would definitely come back.

I was just too late.

Bang.

When my soul drifted out of my body, I saw myself lying on the ground in a bloody mess. People around me were panicking—some screaming, some running, some trembling as they called 911. I floated there, watching it all, feeling only relief.

The person I was waiting for never came.

The ambulance siren ripped through the air as the paramedics rushed my body onto a stretcher. I floated after them, watching myself get pushed into the ER, watching the doctor shake his head, watching a nurse pull a white sheet over my face.

I was dead.

Three days later came my funeral.

The funeral home was packed with wreaths. My black-and-white memorial photo hung in the center, the ID picture I'd taken when I was thirty-one. My parents leaned against the headstone, crying their hearts out.

My father's hair had turned gray overnight, and my mother's eyes were swollen from crying. My wife stood at the edge of the crowd without a single tear, just as expressionless as when she signed the emergency consent form and left with her male assistant.

I wasn't heartbroken. The day I betrayed Emma, I already knew this kind of ending was coming for me.

When the funeral ended, the crowd slowly dispersed. In the end, only my parents were left, holding each other up as they walked away, looking back every few steps.

She didn't come.

Of course she didn't. How could she? The girl who once said, "Michael, I'll wait for you," disappeared from my life the moment I pushed her away with my own hands.

I floated above the headstone and looked at my own memorial photo, suddenly feeling exhausted. Ten years of guilt, ten years of regret, and now it could finally end.

A huge force yanked at me, and my mind dropped into darkness.

When I opened my eyes again...

Blinding sunlight. A buzzing fan. A desk piled high with textbooks. The familiar smell of chalk dust hit my nose, and hushed whispers from classmates filled my ears.

I was stunned.

At the podium, our bald math teacher was pointing right at me and yelling, "Michael Clark, did your neck lock up or what? What the hell are you staring out the window for? If you can make the top ten in the grade, your parents should count themselves lucky. Get to the back and stand there."

I got to my feet like a robot and walked toward the last row while the whole class laughed.

When I passed the third row, I stopped.

A girl was sitting there in a clean school uniform, her ponytail neat and tight, her head lowered as she took notes. Sunlight streamed through the window and danced over her lashes. She was so still she looked like a painting.

I knew that face.

I knew it too damn well.

Emma Lane.