Jon sneezed.
It wasn’t one of those polite, tissue-dab sneezes, either. It was sudden, explosive, a jolt that made his finger slam down on the mousepad with the precision of a drunken cat falling onto a piano. By the time he recovered, blinking the watery sting from his eyes, the screen was already reacting.
A click.
And then another click, because his finger had dragged over a thumbnail and settled squarely on a photo buried deep in the darker strata of his Facebook timeline—one he hadn’t even remembered existed until now.
The photo loaded. A birthday party, the background decorated with paper streamers and balloons in nauseating shades of blue and yellow. Kids around a cake. Frosting smudged smiles.
Front and center was him.
Or rather, little him. Eleven-year-old Jon, grinning with a lopsided gap-toothed smile, hair that actually behaved itself back then, eyes bright with that unjaded spark of a kid who hadn’t yet learned that high school hallways had a hierarchy.
Jon’s stomach dropped.
The stone, snug in his pocket, suddenly flared warm. His vision blurred for an instant, as if reality hiccupped. He looked away, because he had learned the rules already—the stone demanded it.
When he looked back, he froze.
There he was.
Not the photo. Not the memory. The boy.
Standing in the middle of Jon’s bedroom carpet was the flesh-and-blood, eleven-year-old version of himself. He was dressed exactly as in the picture—striped polo shirt, faded jeans with grass stains on the knees, one shoelace untied. He clutched half a balloon string in one hand like he had just been mid-party, mid-moment. His freckled face was twisted in confusion, scanning the unfamiliar posters on the walls, the messy desk, the tangle of wires and headphones.
Then his eyes snapped to Jon.
The boy went pale. His jaw dropped.
“…what the hell?”
Jon scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking over the chair. His heart was pounding loud enough to rattle his ribcage. “Okay—calm down, just—don’t freak out—”
But of course, he freaked out.
“Who are you!?” the boy yelled, voice cracking with that shrill pitch only a preteen could hit. He stumbled back, hitting the dresser with a thunk. “Where’s Mom? Where’s—where am I? What did you do to me!?”
Jon raised his hands like a cop in a hostage video. “It’s okay, it’s okay, listen—”
“You kidnapped me!” the kid cut in, eyes narrowing into angry little shards. “You snatched me from the party! I knew something like this could happen! They always tell us about creeps on the news!”
“No, no, no—look, I didn’t kidnap you. It’s… it’s complicated.”
The boy scowled, puffing up with defiance that Jon remembered all too well. “Complicated? You’re some weirdo teenage loser trying to trick me. Who even are you?”
Jon opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I’m you,” he said. “I’m Jon. Just… older.”
The boy blinked. Then he laughed. Not a friendly laugh, either. It was a mocking little giggle that stabbed straight into Jon’s pride.
“You?” the boy scoffed, sweeping a disdainful gaze over him—the slightly hunched posture, the circles under his eyes, the scrawny arms poking from a T-shirt with a pizza stain. “You’re supposed to be me? No way. No chance. I would never let myself end up looking like such a loser.” He jabbed a finger toward Jon like it was a dagger. “You’re lying. You’re some kind of kidnapper creep.”
Jon winced. That sting hit deeper than it should have. So this is what my eleven-year-old self thinks of me. Great. Fantastic.
The boy stuck out his tongue with theatrical disgust. “If you’re me, then prove it. What’s my favorite game? Huh? What’s the name of my best friend? Bet you don’t even know.”
Jon gritted his teeth. “Karyn. And your favorite game is—” He stopped. Back then, was it Pokémon Emerald or Halo 2? The years blurred.
The boy smirked, sensing hesitation. “See? You don’t even know. You’re a liar.”
Jon groaned. “Look, just—just shut up for a second and let me explain.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and felt the hard edges of the stone box. The weight of it was reassuring and terrifying at once.
But the boy wasn’t shutting up. His panic shifted into bravado, the way kids often covered fear with noise. “When my mom finds out you tried to kidnap me, she’s going to call the cops! You’re going to jail forever. And—ew—your room smells like old socks.”
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. This was a nightmare. Not only had he accidentally dragged his younger self out of time, but the kid was stubborn, loud, and completely immune to reason.
And worse—his family was home.
Downstairs, he could hear faint clatter from the kitchen: pots, the hum of the microwave, the distant voice of his mom calling something to his sister. If the boy started screaming, Jon was finished.
He forced a nervous smile. “Okay, okay. Let’s just… keep quiet, alright? No yelling. I promise I’ll explain everything.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re stalling. You’re waiting for your creepy friends to come in and tie me up, aren’t you?”
Jon threw his hands up. “Oh my god, no! I don’t have creepy friends! Do I look like I have creepy friends!?”
“Yeah,” the boy said flatly, crossing his arms. “You totally do.”
Jon groaned again, pacing the room. His mind was racing. He needed a plan—fast. Hiding a kid in his room while his family went about their evening was bad enough, but hiding a kid who was literally his past self? That was catastrophic. If anyone saw him—if his mom opened the door right now—how the hell was he supposed to explain why there were two Jons?
He glanced at the computer screen. The Facebook page was still open, that cursed picture staring back at him like a grinning little ghost. The stone’s rules ticked in his mind. Every wish reshapes reality. Can’t contradict a previous one. Can’t undo it outright.
Could he wish the kid back into the picture? Maybe. But what if that counted as a contradiction? What if the kid just stayed here permanently, two versions of Jon running around the same house?
The boy was still glaring at him, tapping his foot impatiently. “Well? What are you going to do with me, huh?”
Jon exhaled slowly, trying to keep calm. “First, we’re going to make sure no one finds out you’re here.”
The boy tilted his head. “So you are keeping me locked up. Knew it. Total creep.”
Jon clenched his fists, fighting the urge to yell. “No. I’m protecting you. From… from paradoxes.”
The boy blinked. “Para-what now?”
“Paradoxes. Look, if Mom or Dad sees you, they’ll recognize you instantly. They’ll think you’re me, but smaller. That’ll cause questions. Questions lead to problems. Problems lead to—uh—disaster.”
The boy’s frown deepened, but uncertainty flickered behind it. He was scared. That much was obvious. And scared kids lashed out in the only way they knew—accusations, insults, defiance.
Jon softened his voice. “I’m not here to hurt you. I swear. I’m just… trying to figure this out.”
For a moment, silence hung between them. The boy shifted his weight, glancing at the window as though calculating the odds of escape. But they were on the second floor, and even eleven-year-old Jon wasn’t reckless enough to jump.
Finally, he muttered, “You’re still a loser.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, apparently I was kind of a brat, too.”
The boy stuck his tongue out again.
Jon collapsed onto the bed, head in his hands. He needed a strategy. He needed to fix this mess before anyone upstairs decided to knock. The stone pulsed faintly in his pocket, like a reminder that solutions were only a wish away. But wishes were traps. Every one carried consequences he couldn’t take back.
And now, sitting cross-legged on his carpet, glaring up at him with defiant blue eyes, was living proof of just how quickly one careless slip could spiral out of control.
Jon swallowed hard. How the hell am I supposed to get rid of… myself?
