What If You Could See Your Future?

The ChronoChoice waiting room was designed to calm. Gentle curves, soft lighting, air scented with lavender. Reza had approved the design himself years ago. Strange to sit on the client side now. The wall-mounted countdown clock read 8:35 AM. In exactly twenty-four hours, his window would close.

"Dr. Karim?" The technician appeared in the doorway. "We're ready for you."

"Just to confirm, the procedure remains the same for employees?" Reza asked, standing.

"Yes, sir. Twenty-four hours in your future self, exactly five years forward. Starting now and ending tomorrow at 8:35 AM. At any point before the window closes, you may input the return code to snap back." Her rehearsed smile faltered. "Though as the founder, I'm surprised you'd need to ask."

He'd interviewed this woman himself. Sharma? No, Sharif. The name had slipped again. Minor lapses like this had been happening more frequently. Nothing to worry about. Everyone forgot names occasionally.

"Just confirming protocol," he said. "And the code is linked to my personal identifier?"

"Yes, sir. CHRONOS followed by your chosen numerical sequence. You selected your birthdate."

Of course he had. Impossible to forget that.

The chair reclined automatically as he sat. A thousand clients had sat here before him, but Reza Karim had built ChronoChoice with a singular purpose: to offer people foresight without regret. Just never thought he'd need it himself.

"The headset, please."

White noise filled his ears as the neural transmitter settled against his temples. Consciousness transfer—not actual time travel, but close enough in practical terms. His life's work.

The technician approached with a sleek metallic band. "Your temporal monitor, Dr. Karim. Standard protocol."

"The monitor will alert you every two hours with your remaining window time," she explained. "It's synchronized with your neural patterns—impossible to ignore or forget, even with... cognitive disruptions."

So they all knew. Even the technicians had been briefed on his "episodes."

"Are you ready, Dr. Karim? Remember, the window is precisely twenty-four hours. The code—"

"I know the code," he interrupted. "CHRONOS-0407. My birthday."

"Very good." She nodded. "And your decision path?"

His stomach tightened. "I accept the Tokyo position. I leave next week."

Aiden's face flashed in his mind. Their argument that morning. "You're choosing your work over us. Over Maya."

But this was the point of ChronoChoice—see the outcome, then decide. He could always return if the future looked bleak.

"Initiating transfer in three, two—"

The world dissolved.

Sunlight stabbed through Reza's eyelids. His head pounded mercilessly. He blinked awake in an unfamiliar bedroom—minimalist, expensive, empty. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed Tokyo's skyline.

Five years forward. It had worked, as it always did.

He sat up, noticing the elegant furnishings, the absence of personal touches. No photos. No evidence of Aiden or Maya. A hollow sensation spread through his chest.

The metallic band on his wrist pulsed with soft blue light. He turned it to read the display: 24:00:00 WINDOW REMAINING. The countdown began immediately: 23:59:59... 23:59:58...

A tablet on the nightstand lit up with his touch.

Welcome to your future, Dr. Karim. 8:35 AM, April 6, 2030. Window closes at 8:35 AM, April 7.

Tomorrow was his birthday. He'd be... forty-four? No, forty-five. Simple math, Reza. Focus.

He opened the tablet's note application and typed: "RETURN CODE: CHRONOS-0407 (MY BIRTHDAY - APRIL 7)." He set it as the lock screen, then found a pen in the nightstand and wrote directly on his forearm: "CODE = BIRTHDAY 04/07." Best to have redundancies.

The bathroom was all chrome and glass. His reflection startled him—deeper lines around his eyes, grey at his temples. A prescription bottle sat by the sink: Memantine. He recognized it immediately. Alzheimer's medication.

His hand trembled as he picked it up. His father had started Memantine at sixty-two. Reza was only forty-five.

Without warning, the wristband tightened painfully, vibrating against his pulse point. A mechanical voice announced directly into his auditory nerve: "TWENTY-TWO HOURS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW."

The tablet chimed with an incoming message: "Executive meeting at 9:00. Preparations for North American military contract."

Military? ChronoChoice had been strictly civilian, therapeutic.

The ChronoChoice headquarters had tripled in size. His executive assistant greeted him with practiced efficiency.

"Your notes for the Pentagon meeting are prepared, sir. And Dr. Yamada needs your signature on the classified protocols."

"Classified protocols?" Reza repeated.

She glanced up, concerned. "The memory suppression applications. For the Defense Department?"

His office offered a commanding view of the city. Awards lined the walls. But nestled among corporate files, he found something troubling—internal studies on neural degradation in long-term users. Studies he'd apparently ordered buried.

The wristband constricted again, another jolt of pain shooting up his arm. "TWENTY HOURS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW."

Dr. Yamada entered without knocking. "Reza, the board is concerned about your access patterns this morning. You've been reviewing classified documents that you yourself restricted."

"Just refreshing my memory," Reza said carefully. What was the return code again? CHRONOS followed by...something. A date?

"Is it one of your bad days? Should I reschedule?"

One of his bad days. So others had noticed.

"What exactly are we providing to the military?"

Yamada's brow furrowed. "The selective memory elimination protocol. Your breakthrough. Targeted removal of traumatic experiences in soldiers... and other applications."

"Other applications?"

"Interrogation resistance mitigation. Compliance enhancement." Yamada's clinical detachment chilled him. "Your work has transcended mere consumer applications, Reza. As you intended."

"And did I also intend to hide the neural degradation data?"

"We've had this conversation. The benefits outweigh the risks. The board agreed."

"And Aiden? Where is he now?"

A flash of pity crossed Yamada's face. "You know we don't discuss personal matters at work. Not since the incident last year. When you couldn't remember his name during the charity gala."

After Yamada left, Reza found a personal journal—handwritten, as if he'd feared digital records.

March 12, 2029: Second episode this week. Called Aiden by my father's name. He's planning to move Maya's things out this weekend.

May 4, 2029: Board meeting disaster. Forgot my own presentation.

September 19, 2029: Diagnosis confirmed. Early-onset Alzheimer's, accelerated by neural interface exposure.

December 26, 2029: Saw Maya at the park. She didn't recognize me. Aiden has primary custody now.

February 3, 2030: ChronoChoice is weaponizing my work. I started this to help people see futures, not erase pasts. Too late to stop it.

His phone buzzed with a calendar alert: "Dr. Matsuo – Quarterly Evaluation – 2:00PM."

The wristband tightened once more. "EIGHTEEN HOURS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW."

"Your progression is consistent with our models," Dr. Matsuo said, studying brain scans. "The experimental treatments have slowed the advance, but the neural interface exposure has complicated things."

"Neural interface—you mean ChronoChoice technology?"

She looked up sharply. "Yes. Your own research confirmed the correlation last year."

"How much time do I have before significant impairment?"

"Within eighteen months, you'll likely need full-time assistance."

Eighteen months. At forty-five.

"And ChronoChoice knows about the neural damage risk to clients?"

"Of course. You presented the findings yourself, though the board voted to classify them as inconclusive."

"I need to see Aiden."

The wristband activated again. "FOURTEEN HOURS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW." The pain was becoming more intense with each alert.

When Aiden walked in, the years fell away—then rushed back at the wariness in his eyes.

"You're looking well," Aiden said, taking a seat across from him.

"I'm not," Reza answered honestly.

"I know. Dr. Matsuo keeps me updated."

"Where's Maya?"

"With her other dad. At soccer practice." Aiden's wedding band caught the light. "David's good with her. Patient."

"Like you were with me."

"I tried to be. Tokyo was just the beginning, Reza. You chose your work over us again and again. By the time you realized what was happening to your memory, we were already gone."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are. On your good days, you always are." Aiden studied him. "But this isn't like your usual apologies. Something's different."

"If you could go back and change things, would you?"

"That's your technology, not mine. I've made peace with how things turned out. Maya's happy. I'm happy, eventually. Even you seemed happy with your success, before..."

"Before I started forgetting everything that mattered?"

"You forgot what mattered long before the Alzheimer's, Reza."

The truth of it stung. Reza checked the countdown: 08:12:44.

"I need to know something. Do you remember my birthday?"

"Of course. It's tomorrow. April 7th."

April 7th. CHRONOS-0407. The code. He still had time to return, to make different choices.

"I want to fix this, Aiden. All of it."

"Some things can't be fixed, Reza. They can only be lived with."

The wristband contracted suddenly. "TWELVE HOURS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW."

As they parted, Aiden hesitated. "Whatever you're planning... be careful. Your company isn't what you meant it to be. Neither are you."

Back in his office, Reza worked frantically, downloading confidential files on neural degradation, military applications, everything he could find.

"TEN HOURS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW." The wristband's alert was almost unbearable now.

The door opened. Yamada stood there with two security guards.

"Your access patterns triggered alerts, Reza. The board suspected your condition might eventually become a security risk. We've made arrangements for your care, but your authority is suspended, effective immediately."

"You're staging a coup?"

"We're protecting the company. Your company. Your legacy."

"By turning it into a weapon?"

"By ensuring its survival. The military contracts secured our future when the consumer side showed risks."

Yamada's eyes flicked to the glowing band on Reza's wrist. "You're using a temporal monitor? You're not from now, are you? You're from before."

The band constricted again, bringing him to his knees. "EIGHT HOURS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW."

Yamada watched with clinical interest. "Fascinating. The past version of you, making one last attempt to change things. Take him home. Confiscate any data storage devices. Make sure he stays there until his window closes."

In his empty apartment, Reza paced. The guards were stationed outside. They had taken his tablet, and worse, disabled the input function on his wristband. The countdown continued, a cruel reminder of his diminishing opportunity with no way to act on it.

"SIX HOURS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW." The constriction was now leaving visible bruises, the pain becoming almost impossible to bear.

With mounting desperation, Reza searched the apartment for tools, anything to hack into the wristband. He found nothing useful.

"FOUR HOURS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW." The wristband seemed to burn against his skin now.

Dawn approached. His birthday. Tomorrow was his birthday. April... something. The date itself was slipping away from him even as he tried to grasp it.

He needed both the code and a way to input it. The former might come back to him, but the latter seemed impossible.

Unless...

Reza rushed to his home office, searching through drawers until he found what he was looking for—his founder's access card. If he could get back to the main facility, to the original terminal where the procedure had started...

"TWO HOURS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW." The pain was now so intense he could barely think.

A message appeared on the apartment's wall screen: "Happy early birthday, Dr. Karim. The board has accepted your retirement, effective immediately. Your legacy is secure."

Birthday. His birthday. Tomorrow. April 7th.

CHRONOS-0407. That was the code.

But the interface was still locked. The knowledge was useless without access.

"ONE HOUR REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW." The wristband's constriction was now almost unbearable.

Reza slipped past the guards during their shift change. His founder's access card still worked. He made his way to the procedure room where his journey had begun. The terminal was there, waiting.

"THIRTY MINUTES REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW." The voice now seemed to fill the room.

His fingers flew across the interface, entering his emergency override codes. The wristband's connection port was revealed. He found the cable, connected it to the terminal.

WARNING: TEMPORAL MONITOR OVERWRITE. AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.

He entered his credentials. Access granted. The wristband's input interface illuminated once more.

With trembling fingers, he entered the code. CHRONOS-0407. A verification screen appeared: "Return to origin point? All future events from this timeline will be accessible memory only."

The terminal door burst open. Yamada stood there with security.

"Reza, stop! You don't understand what you're doing!"

His finger hovered over the confirmation button.

If he returned, he could refuse Tokyo. Keep his family. Redirect ChronoChoice away from this military future. Prepare for the Alzheimer's that would come regardless.

Or he could stay, use what time he had left to expose the truth. Fight the company he'd created from the inside, with evidence already gathered.

The choice before him was the same one he'd made five years ago—legacy or love. Work or family. Future or present.

But now he understood the cost.

"FIVE MINUTES REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW." The band was now so tight he could no longer feel his hand.

"Think about your legacy!" Yamada shouted. "Everything you've built!"

"ONE MINUTE REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW." The synthetic voice had become a scream, the band a vise.

The security team was advancing slowly, cautiously.

"TEN SECONDS REMAINING IN TEMPORAL WINDOW."

Reza pressed confirm.

He gasped awake in the procedure chair, the technician—Sharif, her name was Sharif—staring with concern.

"Dr. Karim? Are you alright? Your vitals spiked."

Reza clutched his wrist instinctively, but the temporal monitor was gone. The phantom pain lingered—a ghost of future agony.

"How long was I gone?"

"Just under three minutes, as always." She checked his readings. "Though subjectively—"

"Twenty-four hours. I know." He sat up, removing the headset with shaking hands. "I need to make a call."

In the privacy of his office, he called Aiden.

"The Tokyo position," Reza said without preamble. "I'm turning it down."

Silence, then: "What changed your mind?"

Everything. Nothing. Five years that never happened.

"I realized some opportunities only come once," Reza answered. "Like family. Like Maya."

"And your research?"

"Will still be there. In a different form." He took a deep breath. "Aiden, I need to tell you something. About my father's condition. About me."

Some futures couldn't be avoided. But they could be faced together.

After the call, Reza opened his computer. His resignation letter would shock the board. His whistleblower report on the technology's neural risks would shock the industry.

He had chosen a different legacy now. One measured not in patents or profits, but in moments remembered—however briefly they might last.