Chapter 3: Riley: The Daughter I Never Knew

When I woke up again in front of the freezer, my heart pounded—not from fear, but shock.

I sat up, gasping, hands pressed to my chest. The memory of the knife lingered, sharp and cold.

Riley. The name echoed in my mind.

I whispered it, tasting the unfamiliar syllables. Riley. My daughter. Somehow, impossibly, she was real.

A daughter. In the future.

The idea was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. A future I’d never imagined, suddenly thrust into my lap.

Why would I go this far? Even kill myself?

The question gnawed at me, more urgent than ever. What kind of man would I become?

At 2:20 a.m., I sat at the counter and fired up the store computer.

The screen glowed in the dark, the only light in the empty store. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure where to start.

I needed answers. Now.

Waiting had gotten me nowhere. It was time to act.

I searched “Riley Marsh” and “rare blood disease.” Too many results.

Page after page, article after article. None of them felt real. None of them felt like her.

I tried “extremely expensive blood disease treatment.” Got a few hits.

I scrolled through medical journals, GoFundMe pages, desperate pleas from parents. The numbers were staggering—hundreds of thousands, even millions.

Heeman-Faber Syndrome. The name stuck.

The name jumped out at me, cold and clinical. I read the description, my stomach turning.

Fewer than 500 cases worldwide. Treatment? Millions.

The odds were astronomical. But if anyone was unlucky enough to get it, it would be my kid.

Was that it? Was that what I was fighting for?

The pieces started to fit together, but the picture they painted was bleak.

But even so—why kill me? Robbing a convenience store for a couple grand wouldn’t solve anything.

It didn’t make sense. There had to be more to the story.

Unless... it wasn’t about the money at all.

The thought sent a chill down my spine. Maybe it was about something bigger—something only my future self understood.

I kept searching—time travel, ethics, paradoxes. Sci-fi forums. Physics threads.

I fell down a rabbit hole of wild theories and impossible equations. None of it made sense, but I clung to the hope that somewhere, there was an answer.

At 2:39 a.m., I closed the computer and stood behind the counter, waiting.

I cracked my knuckles, nerves jangling. This time, I was ready to talk.

No running. No fighting.

I’d tried violence. I’d tried hiding. Now, I’d try honesty.

I’d try to talk.

Words were all I had left. Maybe they’d be enough.

When the man in black came in through the back door, I spoke up. “Riley needs treatment for Heeman-Faber Syndrome, right?”

My voice trembled, but I forced myself to look him in the eye.

He hesitated, just for a moment, then kept coming.

It was just a flicker, but it was there. I’d gotten under his skin.

“I know who you are. I know why you’re here,” I said.

My heart was pounding, but I pressed on. I had to reach him.

“We should work together. There’s got to be another way.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with hope and desperation.

My future self stopped. Even through the hood, I could feel him staring.

He stared at me, silent. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

No other way. That’s what he believed.

He looked wrecked. I could see the pain behind the anger.

“At least tell me the truth!” I pleaded. “Why this store? Why tonight? Why me?”

My voice cracked, but I didn’t care. I needed answers.

He didn’t answer. Just kept coming.

His silence was worse than any threat. I could see the conflict in his eyes.

I noticed that as he walked, he sometimes clutched his chest. Maybe it wasn’t just his daughter—maybe he was sick too.

The gesture was quick, almost hidden. But I caught it. Something was wrong with him.

“You’re sick too, aren’t you?” I asked.

I watched his face, searching for a reaction.

That got to him. He stopped. Took off the hood.

His face was pale, drawn. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the world.

That same face—mine, but battered—was twisted in pain.

He grimaced, teeth clenched. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Listen, past me. There are things you’ll never understand until you’ve been through what I have,” he said.

His voice was softer now, almost pleading. I felt a pang of sympathy—and fear.

“Riley needs a bone marrow transplant. But our marrow doesn’t match anymore, because...”

He trailed off, voice cracking. His hand went to his chest again.

Suddenly, he clutched his chest. Doubled over in pain.

He gasped, breath coming in ragged bursts. I took a step forward, instinctively wanting to help.

I started to help, but he raised the knife. Warning me back.

The blade flashed. I froze, hands raised in surrender.

“Because what?” I pressed.

I couldn’t let it go. I had to know.

“Because time travel changed me. Changed everything,” he ground out. Then he yanked the hood back on and charged at me.

His words echoed in my mind as he lunged. Time travel. Changed everything. What did that mean?

This time, as I died, all I felt was heartache—for a daughter I’d never met.

The pain was sharp, but the ache in my chest was worse. I grieved for a future I’d never known, for a little girl who needed me.