The house was quiet save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant hum of the refrigerator. Lysander padded softly down the hallway in his sock feet, careful to avoid the third step from the bottom of the staircase that had always announced his childhood midnight excursions with an unmistakable groan.
The family computer sat in what his parents optimistically called the "study"—a small converted closet off the living room housing a desk, an aging desktop computer, and several shelves of rarely-consulted reference books. Lysander slipped inside and gently closed the door behind him before switching on the small desk lamp.
The computer itself was a relic by his adult standards—a bulky beige machine with barely enough processing power to run basic programs. As he pressed the power button, the tower whirred to life with a mechanical complaint that sounded deafening in the silent house. Lysander held his breath, listening for any signs that the noise had disturbed his family's sleep.
Nothing. He exhaled slowly.
While the machine laboriously booted up, Lysander mentally reviewed his timeline. His father wouldn't be home for at least another hour, based on the patterns he'd observed since his return. His mother, exhausted from a full day of managing the household and community center responsibilities, was unlikely to wake before his father's arrival. Sophia and Marcus were sound asleep, their teenage bodies demanding the rest that their social schedules rarely allowed.
Still, he needed to be efficient. Time was precious—both in the immediate sense of avoiding discovery and in the larger context of his second chance at life.
The Windows XP welcome screen finally appeared, followed by the desktop with its rolling green hills background. Lysander opened Internet Explorer and waited through another eternity as the dial-up connection established itself with a series of electronic screeches that made him wince.
"This is torture," he muttered, remembering now why he'd been so impatient with technology in his youth. After decades of instantaneous connections and processing speeds measured in gigahertz rather than megahertz, this glacial pace was almost physically painful.
Once connected, Lysander created a fresh email account with a deliberately forgettable name—nothing that would connect to his identity. He then navigated to several financial news websites, scanning the current market conditions and taking careful notes on a small pad he had brought with him.
Bitcoin wouldn't be invented for another few years, and Facebook was still in its infancy—a college networking site not yet available to the general public. Google had gone public the previous year, but its explosive growth was still ahead. Apple was just beginning its renaissance with the iPod, years away from introducing the iPhone that would revolutionize technology.
Lysander's fingers hovered over the keyboard as he considered his options. His resources were extremely limited—just the accumulated allowance and birthday money of a ten-year-old, barely enough for even the most modest investment. But he knew it wasn't about the initial amount; it was about positioning himself correctly for the technological revolution that would unfold over the coming decade.
He created accounts on several investment forums, using his new email address and fabricating an adult identity. He couldn't legally invest at his current age, but he could begin gathering information, building knowledge, establishing connections that would be valuable when he was old enough to act more directly.
Lysander drafted careful messages to several investment bloggers whose names he remembered from his first life—individuals who had shown remarkable foresight about technological trends and who had later become influential voices in the financial world. He posed thoughtful questions about emerging technologies, careful to frame his queries in ways that wouldn't reveal his impossible foreknowledge.
Next, he created a simple spreadsheet to track his plans. Column A listed years, beginning with the current date and extending fifteen years into the future. Column B contained major technological and financial events he remembered—product launches, market shifts, economic downturns, and breakthroughs. Column C outlined what actions he would need to take in preparation for each event.
2005: Begin saving all possible money. 2006: Research smartphone technology developments. 2007: Prepare for iPhone release and subsequent market shifts. 2008: Position for economic downturn; identify resilient sectors. 2009: Bitcoin appears—establish early mining operation. 2010: Initial social media investments.
The list continued, mapping out a decade of opportunities that most investors would only recognize in hindsight. Lysander saved the document in a deeply nested folder with an innocuous name, then password-protected it using a combination he knew would be memorable to him but impossible for anyone else to guess.
As he worked, Lysander realized he needed to think more immediately as well. His ten-year-old self had limited means, but he wasn't entirely without options. He could begin small entrepreneurial ventures—a paper route, lawn mowing, pet sitting—activities appropriate for his age that could generate modest income. Every dollar saved now would compound dramatically over time, especially with his foreknowledge of market movements.
He also needed to consider how to approach his parents about opening a custodial investment account. His father, with his background in business, might be receptive to encouraging financial responsibility in his children. Perhaps he could suggest it as a learning opportunity, a way to understand the concepts his father dealt with professionally.
Lysander was so absorbed in his planning that he almost missed the distant sound of a car door closing. He froze, suddenly alert. Headlights briefly illuminated the window blinds as a vehicle turned into the driveway.
His father was home early.
Lysander quickly closed his documents, cleared the browser history, and shut down the computer. He switched off the desk lamp and listened intently as the front door opened and closed. His father's footsteps sounded in the entryway, followed by the familiar routine—keys deposited in the ceramic bowl on the hall table, briefcase set beside the coat rack, shoes methodically arranged on the mat.
For a moment, Lysander considered slipping upstairs undetected, avoiding an encounter alltogether. But then he remembered his earlier thoughts about rebuilding his relationship with his father, about seizing the small moments that had cumulatively led to their estrangement in his first life.
Taking a deep breath, Lysander opened the study door and stepped into the dimly lit living room.
"Dad?" he called softly.
Robert Everett looked up in surprise, tie loosened around his neck and weariness evident in the shadows beneath his eyes. "Lysander? What are you doing up at this hour?"
"I couldn't sleep," Lysander replied, which wasn't entirely untrue. His adult mind often struggled to shut down at his childhood bedtime, decades of late-night work habits difficult to override.
His father checked his watch with a frown. "It's almost midnight. You have school tomorrow."
"I know," Lysander acknowledged. "I just... I heard the car and wanted to say goodnight."
Something shifted in his father's expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxation of the perpetually tense shoulders. "That's... nice of you, son."
An awkward silence fell between them, neither quite sure how to proceed. In his first life, Lysander realized, such encounters had been vanishingly rare—his father arriving home long after the children were asleep, departing before they woke. Their interactions had been limited to weekends and holidays, often strained by the emotional distance that accumulates when daily lives barely intersect.
"How was work?" Lysander ventured, deliberately using adult phrasing that his ten-year-old self would likely not have employed.
Robert seemed momentarily startled by the mature inquiry. "Challenging," he finally answered, setting down his briefcase and sinking into his favorite armchair. "We're negotiating a new shipping contract with a difficult client."
Lysander nodded, remembering fragments of stories about his father's work from his first childhood. "International shipping is complicated," he observed. "All those different regulations and time zones."
His father's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's exactly right. How did you know that?"
Lysander shrugged, mentally chiding himself for the slip. "You mentioned it before, I think. And we learned about global trade in school."
"Did you?" Robert studied his youngest son with newfound interest. "Well, you're right. This particular client wants special rates for Southeast Asian routes without considering the fuel surcharges and port fees involved." He shook his head. "Sorry, this probably isn't very interesting to you."
"Actually, it is," Lysander said truthfully. In his first life, he had never fully appreciated the complexity of his father's work or the pressures he faced. As an adult himself, particularly as a CEO negotiating international business deals, he had often wished he could ask his father for advice. "How do you handle difficult negotiations like that?"
Robert seemed genuinely surprised by the question—and by his youngest son's unexpected interest. "Well," he began hesitantly, "the key is understanding what the other party truly values. Often, what they say they want isn't really what matters most to them."
Lysander nodded, recognizing wisdom that had taken him years to learn in his own career. "So you look for what's behind their demands?"
"Exactly." His father leaned forward slightly, animated now by the topic. "In this case, they keep pushing on price, but what they really need is flexibility in scheduling. Once I figured that out, I could offer concessions that actually matter to them without compromising on our core requirements."
"That's smart," Lysander said, meaning it.
Robert studied his son for a long moment. "You know, you remind me a bit of myself at your age. Always thinking, always watching." A shadow passed briefly across his face. "I hope you'll have more balance than I did, though. Don't get so caught up in planning for tomorrow that you miss today."
The irony of this advice—coming from a man whose absence had been a defining feature of Lysander's first childhood, directed at a son who had ultimately repeated the same pattern—was almost painful. Lysander felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to tell his father everything, to explain the strange miracle that had brought him back, to warn him about the regrets that lay ahead for both of them.
Instead, he simply said, "I'll try, Dad."
His father reached out and ruffled Lysander's hair—a gesture so unexpected that Lysander nearly flinched. When was the last time his father had touched him so casually, so affectionately? He couldn't remember it happening even once in his first journey through childhood.
"You should get to bed now," Robert said, his voice gentler than before. "It's late."
Lysander nodded, oddly reluctant to end this rare moment of connection. "Goodnight, Dad."
As he turned to go, his father called after him, "Lysander?"
"Yes?"
"I was thinking about what you said this morning—about your plans for the future." Robert hesitated, then continued, "If you're really interested in how business works, maybe you'd like to come to the office with me sometime. See what I do."
In his first childhood, had such an invitation ever been extended? If it had, Lysander had either declined or forgotten it entirely. Now, the offer felt monumental—a door opening to a relationship that had remained largely theoretical in his previous life.
"I'd like that a lot," Lysander replied, unable to keep the emotion from his voice.
His father nodded, seeming pleased but slightly embarrassed by the sentiment in the exchange. "Good. We'll arrange it soon. Now get some sleep."
As Lysander climbed the stairs to his bedroom, his financial planning temporarily forgotten, he reflected on the strange paradox of his situation. He had come to the computer tonight focused entirely on laying groundwork for future wealth—recreating the very path that had ultimately led to his greatest regrets. Yet the truly valuable outcome of his late-night excursion had been this unexpected connection with his father—a small moment that represented exactly the kind of relationship he had sacrificed in his relentless pursuit of success.
The stranger's words echoed in his mind: "The butterfly effect is already in motion." This simple conversation, this brief exchange that had never occurred in his original timeline, could alter the course of their relationship in ways he couldn't yet imagine.
As he slipped back into his room, Lysander realized that his financial planning could wait. The true investment he needed to make first was in the relationships that money could never buy—and which, as he had learned too late in his first life, no amount of success could adequately replace.