The day I nearly lost him, my husband, Callum Harding, was twenty-five years old. He was thrown from a high-rise building by kidnappers while trying to protect me. When he finally opened his eyes, the deep, adoring affection I knew was gone. In its place was a chilling indifference, edged with outright disgust. He said he was the Callum Harding of ten years later, thirty-five years old. The man who, three years into our marriage, would cheat on me with his childhood crush. He said the two of us had long grown sick of each other, trapped for a decade only by the child we’d had. He said he and Violet Summerfield had a child of their own. And the first demand he made, the moment his thirty-five-year-old self returned to his younger body, was that I terminate the twins growing inside me and divorce him. 1 The next morning, Callum discharged himself from the hospital and brought Violet home. My in-laws rushed me back to the house, where I found him holding Violet’s hand, addressing his parents. “Violet and I grew up together. She’s the only one who truly understands me, the one I’m meant to spend my life with. I have to marry her,” he stated. “As for Talia, I’m deeply sorry. I will provide her with whatever financial compensation she needs after the divorce.” My mother- and father-in-law were pale with shock and fury, muttering about the shame he was bringing to the family name. The son who had always been so dutiful was now utterly consumed by another woman. I stared at him, my heart constricting with a sharp, bitter pain. “Callum, were you serious about what you said last night?” He’d been in a coma for nearly a month. When he woke, he was a stranger, claiming to be his future self. I’d dismissed it as delirium, the residual effect of the trauma. But now, he was as resolute as ever. The look he gave me was identical to the one from the night before: devoid of warmth, filled only with cold finality. “Talia, how many times do I have to say it? I didn’t lose my memory. I remember everything. And I truly don’t love you anymore.” His look of revulsion made my spirit ache. “But we only got married three months ago. You told me you only loved me…” Callum frowned. Before he could speak, Violet sank to her knees in front of me and my in-laws. “Talia, I know your family is better than mine, and that you’re a better match for Callum. That’s why I never tried to compete with you before,” she pleaded, tears welling up. “But now he loves me too. Please, just let us be together.” I remembered the brutal details Callum had shared last night. He said that three years in the future, he encountered Violet during a high-profile anti-trafficking task force operation. He learned that after college, her lack of wealth and connections made her a target. She was assaulted and exploited by wealthy men, which led her to the dark side of the nightlife industry. His pity and subsequent care for her blossomed into love. But by then, I had already given birth to his child. The families on both sides, traditional and stubborn, refused to accept our divorce. And so, he said, we’d stayed entangled for ten miserable years. The whole thing ended when Violet, in despair, took her own life and their child’s, jumping from an eighteenth-floor balcony. He was back now to stop all of it before it started. I could pity Violet’s past, but I couldn't bring myself to like her. Callum, his eyes full of tenderness, helped her up. He then turned to his parents, making his final, terrifying declaration. “Dad, Mom, if you don’t agree to this, I will resign from the force immediately. And then I’ll do something worse.” He used his life as a threat. They had no choice but to concede. Callum immediately walked out, taking Violet with him to her family home, presumably to propose. Once they were gone, my in-laws unleashed all their stored fury on me. They demanded to know why their son was a different person, why my husband's heart had changed just three months into our marriage. I couldn’t answer. How could I tell them the truth? That the Callum who had walked with me from college to the wedding aisle was gone. That the man in his body was a ghost from the future, his thirty-five-year-old soul. And the thirty-five-year-old Callum, simply, did not love me. I stumbled out of the house. The early winter chill hit my face, yet everything still felt impossibly unreal. How could Callum not love me? At eighteen, we were in the same university. After a painting competition, he found me, his ears bright red, and asked for my number. I remember my own cheeks flushing as I looked at his handsome profile. He told me then, quoting his favorite poet, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” At twenty, we were a couple. We traveled to dozens of cities, and in every single one, he proposed to me. He said he would keep proposing until I was a hundred, or until I finally said yes. At twenty-four, I was hypothermic and near death on a remote mountain trail. He covered me with every piece of his own clothing. When the rescue team found us, he had barely a breath left, yet he was still holding me tight. Finally, I agreed to marry him. He was so happy he spun me around until I was dizzy, then flew to the States the next day to meet my parents. At the altar, he made a vow to love only me, for all our lives. Even as we fell from that building, he shielded me, his last words to me: “Talia, if there’s a next life, we’ll be together then, too.” I walked away without a scratch. He suffered multiple fractures. I swore I would spend the rest of my life repaying that fierce, deep love. But now, Callum was telling me he didn't love me anymore. I wiped a tear from my cheek and started walking toward Violet’s house. I refused to believe that the Callum who loved me so completely could ever be unfaithful. I had to make the thirty-five-year-old ghost go back to his own timeline. 2 As I reached the yard, I heard the sounds coming from the house—intimate, unmistakable. “...Callum, easy now.” The door was ajar. I pushed it open. Callum had Violet pressed against him, one hand cupping her breast while the other was tangled in the back of her hair, aggressively deepening a kiss. My pupils shrank. “Callum, what are you doing?” I couldn’t reconcile this raw, uncontrolled display of desire with the reserved, self-possessed man I’d married. Was this man truly the Callum Harding I had known and loved for seven years? Hearing my voice, Callum instantly pulled back, his desire replaced by cold fury. “What I do is none of your business. Get out.” I swallowed the sudden surge of nausea and forced myself to meet his familiar but icy eyes. “This is my husband’s body. And we are still married!” Callum let out a bitter laugh. “I am your husband, aren’t I?” I shook my head stubbornly. “You are not him. Give him back.” He finally released Violet, murmuring a soft apology in her ear, then grabbed my arm with a shocking, brutal strength and dragged me toward the door. I had never imagined the man who cherished me, who treated me like spun glass, would ever touch me with such violence. Even the thirty-five-year-old him shouldn't be capable of this. Once we were outside, I rushed to speak before him. “Tell me, what will it take for you to go back to your own body?” “If you’re worried about Violet, I can give her a substantial sum of money and relocate her overseas. I can ensure she never faces the kind of degradation you said she did…” Callum was unmoved. “I came back to marry her. I will have a life with Violet.” A life with Violet. He’d used that exact phrase in our wedding vows three months ago. The intended recipient was me. I struggled to breathe through the sudden, crushing pain. Then, I thought of the silver locket he’d given me just before the wedding—a bespoke blessing he’d sought from a spiritual retreat. “You’re not Callum,” I insisted. “The real Callum went to St. Jude’s Heights Chapel and made a solemn vow. He swore that in this life, and the next, he would only love me, and always be with me!” “Please,” I begged. “Just bring my husband back. I will agree to any demand, anything you ask.” A flicker of something—maybe conscience, maybe remorse—crossed Callum’s face. But the next moment, his voice was even crueler. “Talia, I absolutely hate this crying, desperate look on your face.” “You think if the twenty-five-year-old me comes back, he’ll love you forever, just as he promised? The things I told you are true. In three years, I will slowly fall in love with Violet.” “I am your future husband. You’re just getting advance notice of the ending of this marriage.” “Cutting our losses now is the best thing for both of us.” His words silenced me. I knew, with chilling clarity, that if he truly was the future Callum, my clinging desperation was pointless. But a deeper, more stubborn part of me wanted to believe he was an imposter, a cruel soul who had stolen the body of the man I loved. I took a shaky breath. “If you can convince the twenty-five-year-old Callum to come back and tell me himself that he doesn’t love me, I will walk away willingly. Otherwise, forget it.” Callum held my gaze for a long, cold moment, then forced a mocking smile. “Wishful thinking.” He pulled a folded document from his jacket pocket and shoved the divorce papers into my hand. “Be smart and sign it yourself. If you don’t, I don’t mind dragging this out with a messy divorce trial.” 3 That night, Callum did not come home. I tossed and turned for hours before drifting into a vague sleep. In the dreamlike haze, I suddenly remembered the conversation we’d had at the Chapel. We went to the isolated St. Jude’s Heights Chapel, known for its rigorous spiritual practices. Callum asked the old spiritualist, Father Thomas, for a special marriage blessing—a bespoke, hand-engraved silver locket meant to ensure eternal union. Father Thomas shook his head. “Your union, though blessed, is fated for a sharp, swift end. You should not seek this.” I wasn’t a believer, but Callum was fiercely insistent. Finally, the old man relented. He said that if Callum’s sincerity was absolute, he must walk the Three Thousand Steps of the Ascendant Path—a grueling three-day climb—three steps forward, one kneeling bow—and only then would he reconsider. I couldn’t bear the thought and begged him to forget it. I didn’t need a ritual to prove a love I saw in his eyes every morning. But the next night, Callum appeared at my door, exhausted, bruised, but his eyes shining like a thousand stars. He held up the newly-engraved locket. “Wife! I did it!” I had only smiled, calling him my beautiful idiot. I woke up and lay still for a long time. Then, I knew what I had to do. I drove straight to St. Jude’s. I needed to ask the spiritualist if he had foreseen this and if there was a way to fix it. The old man, Father Thomas, looked at me gently. “What’s so bad about cutting a doomed connection early?” I was about to protest when he directed my gaze to a far corner of the sanctuary. I saw them. Callum, my husband, was with Violet, his arm around her shoulders as they stood side-by-side, offering a prayer. I forced the rage and the suffocating chest pain down. I was here for a reason. Father Thomas took one look at my ashen face, sighed, and handed me a small piece of parchment, not the silver locket. “Take this. Tape it to your headboard and sleep. Tomorrow, you will have your answer.” I did as he instructed. That night, I fell into a very long, very vivid dream. I dreamed that at seven months pregnant, I was getting a check-up. On the way home, Callum got an emergency call for a raid and had to leave me to drive alone. I was in a car accident. The stress caused premature labor. I gave birth to twins, but one was too weak and didn't survive. Callum held our tiny, dead son, his eyes bloodshot, and demanded to know why I hadn't been more careful. I was consumed by my own grief, but his words hung between us like a poisoned cloud. The event became a permanent, festering wound in our marriage. Later, our surviving daughter was diagnosed with severe autism at age three. Callum’s assignments and covert work became more demanding. He was home less and less. I became unrecognizable. I secretly checked his phone. I dropped by his precinct during what he claimed were all-night shifts. I found myself whispering to our daughter, “Daddy doesn’t want us anymore.” Almost every time he came home, we had a horrible fight. “If you hadn’t insisted on carrying her to term after the accident, we wouldn’t be living this miserable life!” In the dream, Callum slammed the door behind him. 4 A month later, I found a movie ticket stub in the pocket of his washed uniform shirt. It was for a couple’s section. I stared at the stub, my eyes burning. He had told me he was working a marathon interrogation that night. Similar incidents became routine. The faint scent of a different perfume on his collar. A smudge of lipstick he hadn't noticed. The unlabeled, frequently called number in his contacts. I watched, horrified, as our marriage spiraled beyond repair. Violet had a son—bright, healthy, and charming. On our daughter’s fifth birthday, Callum promised to take her to the amusement park. But he broke the promise to rush Violet’s boy to the emergency room. Our daughter sobbed, asking, “Mommy, does Daddy hate us?” We hated each other, yet we stayed married, bound by the child and the complexity of our lives. The final frame of the dream: Violet, holding her son, standing on the edge of a skyscraper roof. She smiled down at a frantically approaching Callum. “Callum, in the next life, I hope I find you sooner.” Then, she jumped. Callum turned to me, his eyes sharp as broken glass. “Talia. Are you satisfied now?” I jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. I placed a hand on my still-flat belly, my mind reeling. Before seeing the future, I had believed our love was strong enough to withstand anything. But having witnessed the step-by-step decay of our marriage... I closed my eyes and reached for the documents. I signed the divorce agreement. As requested, I went to the clinic and scheduled the termination procedure.
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