Hunter, a man in his early forties with tired eyes and a weathered bomber jacket, steps out of the DeLorean, clutching a strange silver device. He glances at his wristwatch, rain glistening on its cracked face. The city’s skyline looms, a tangle of antennas and neon, but the year on a nearby newspaper—1962—makes his breath hitch.
"I made it. 1962... I hope I remember where I lived," he mutters, tucking the device into his coat. He scans the street, nerves tingling with anticipation and fear.
Hunter stands at the edge of the yard, peering through the rain-misted glass. He sees a boy of nine—Young Hunter, spirited and wild-haired—playing with toy rockets on the living room rug. Their mother, apron-clad, hums an old tune in the kitchen.
"I never thought I’d see this again," he whispers, emotion thick in his voice. Each detail—the wallpaper, the smell of baking bread—floods him with memories.
Young Hunter[/@ch_2] pretends to launch his rocket into orbit.]
Hunter knocks softly on the door, heart pounding. The door creaks open and Young Hunter stares up at him, eyes wide with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.
"Who are you? Are you one of Dad’s friends?" The boy’s voice trembles, but his grip on the rocket is firm.
"Not exactly," Hunter replies, crouching to meet the boy’s gaze. "I just wanted to see if you still believed you could go to the moon one day."
Young Hunter studies Hunter’s face, searching for something familiar. He hesitates, then whispers, "Sometimes I do. But sometimes I’m scared I’ll never get there."
"You will," Hunter says softly, voice thick with hope and regret. "Just promise me you won’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Even when everything seems impossible."
Hunter kneels to Young Hunter, holding out the silver device. "Keep dreaming, kid. The future’s brighter than you think. And one day—" His words trail off as he stands, his silhouette merging with the shadows.
"Will I see you again?" Young Hunter calls softly, hope flickering in his eyes.
"Maybe. Just remember, the best parts of me… are still you," Hunter says, vanishing into the rainy night.
Hunter[/@ch_1] slides into the driver’s seat, glancing one last time at the house glowing warmly behind him.]
He punches coordinates into the console, jaw clenched with bittersweet determination. As the car shudders and blue lightning arcs around him, he whispers, "Thank you for reminding me who I am." The DeLorean vanishes in a flash, leaving only the soft echo of rain and dreams lingering in 1962.
