The boy sat quietly, watching the news unfold — flashes of crumbling cities, panicked crowds, and glimpses of unknown beings flickering across the screen. Olivia stood nearby, arms crossed, shaking her head.

“All this is happening because God is angry with the people,” she said softly. “You should pray to Him every day.”

He gave a half-smirk. “Sure,” he replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm. Then he wandered into the kitchen.

As he reached for snacks, his arm brushed against a knife left too close to the edge of the counter. It slipped. Instinctively, he grabbed it — by the blade.

Blood spilled fast. A deep, clean slice across his palm.

Olivia rushed in and quickly bandaged the wound. “Does it hurt?” she asked, panic rising in her voice.

He stared at his wrapped hand. “It’s fine.”

Pain never really bothered him. It was just a nuisance.

That night, lying in bed, he closed his eyes, trying to sleep.

Then — a whisper.

Close. Too close.

Right by his ear.

“Wake up.”

His eyes shot open. No one was there.

Then came the pain.

A searing, unnatural heat erupted across his back, blooming like wildfire under his skin. He screamed. His family rushed into the room, alarmed.

“What’s wrong?”

“What happened?”

“My back,” he gasped. “It’s burning.”

His brother pulled off his shirt — and froze.

Something was appearing on his skin. A mark, twisted and jagged, carving itself into him like it was being branded by something invisible. The skin bubbled. Smoke rose. Flesh reshaped.

When it was done, the boy collapsed.

He awoke hours later. The room was dim, the world quiet.

His gaze drifted to his bandaged hand. A dull throb pulsed beneath the wrap. Slowly, he began unwrapping it.

The wound was still there — red, deep, raw.

Then it changed.

Right before his eyes, the skin began to knit itself together. The blood vanished. The gash closed.

Muscle. Flesh. Skin.

Restored in seconds.

Not even a scar remained.

He stared, unmoving, as his hand returned to perfection.

It hadn’t healed.

It had reversed — like time had been pulled backward.

A quiet gasp broke the silence.

His mother stood at the doorway, one hand covering her mouth.

“What… what did I just see?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His older brother stepped forward, stunned. “That’s not medicine,” he said. “That’s… something else.”

In the corner, his two-year-old sister sat on the floor, holding a stuffed animal. She clapped once, then giggled.

“Magic!” she squealed, laughing like it was a game.

But no one else laughed.

The boy looked down at his flawless hand… then up at the others.

They all stared at him — not with concern…

…but with fear.

Finally, Olivia spoke, voice shaky but searching for hope.

“It’s a miracle,” she said, tears in her eyes. “God is protecting you. You must thank Him. Pray more, my son. Every day.”

But the boy said nothing.

He just kept staring at his hand — the hand that had reversed time.

Then he remembered the whisper.

That voice, so cold… so close…

“Wake up.”

It didn’t sound like God.

It didn’t sound divine.

It sounded ancient.

Ominous.

He forced a weak smile to calm his mother. But deep down, he already knew:

This wasn’t holy.

And whatever had marked him…

…it had only just begun.