terness of fifty years. I lay in a sterile hospital bed, the rhythmic beep of the hea

dding day. Even now, with wrinkles lining her face, she was still the beautifu

as certain, had ne

ask she wore, and the regret of a lifetime burned in my chest. All those years, tryi

asped, my voic

her expression unrea

free, heavy with pain. "If I could do it all over again,"

gone as quickly as it appeared. Before she could respond, before I c

t flooded

ood bedroom, sunlight streaming through the window, posters of 80s roc

-year-old man, but an 18-year-old kid. It was me, Ethan Clark, a high scho

hs before my father would sit me down and tell me

ond c

build my own life. I would use my knowledge of the next fifty years-the rise of personal computers, the i

but on my terms. And I would never, ever

irm and steady. I started writing, outlining everything I remembered. Tech sta

the laid-back jock who coasted through classes.