The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Mike Shinoda sat slouched on the edge of his bed, staring at the ceiling as if the cracks there might speak to him. They didn’t. Nothing did. The world outside continued, ignorant, loud, alive—but in here, everything had stopped. It had stopped a month ago, when the phone call came.

Chester was gone.

Mike’s mind kept replaying the moment in loops so cruel they should have been illegal. The frantic ringing of the phone, the words he could barely comprehend. The world that blurred after that. Days and nights folded into each other. The guitar in the corner of the room, a silent witness, bore witness to nothing.

He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t move past the thought that he had lost his best friend, his creative partner, the person who had understood him in ways nobody else ever could.

He rubbed his eyes. “It’s just… life,” he whispered to the empty room, a feeble attempt to reassure himself. “It’s just life.”

But it didn’t feel like life. It felt like a punishment. A cruel joke that the universe kept playing on him. Mike felt hollow, fractured, as if someone had gone through him and carved out a piece of his soul. And that piece… that piece was Chester.

He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at it like if he could just physically dismantle himself, the pain might leave too. Nothing worked.

A laugh bubbled up—sharp, bitter, and uncontrolled. He pressed a hand to his mouth. “Ha… funny,” he muttered. “Real funny, life. Took him away, and left me with… this.”

The house smelled faintly of stale coffee and something he couldn’t quite place. Regret? Guilt? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He just… hurt.

He tried to distract himself. He picked up his laptop and scrolled through old pictures, but every smiling photo, every moment of triumph and laughter with Chester, stabbed him in the chest. He closed it with a snap, wincing at the echo. The walls seemed to shrink. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, long and accusing.

Mike lay back on the bed. He hugged a pillow to his chest, curling into himself, trying to find a semblance of safety. Nothing. The absence of Chester was physical now, a weight pressing against his chest that no amount of breathing exercises or deep inhalations could relieve.

Tears came, slow at first, then in torrents. He didn’t care who might see him like this—if anyone could see him at all. The sobs wracked his body, loud enough that they might have woken the neighbors. Or maybe they didn’t care either. Maybe nobody cared. That was probably why Anna had left to visit her parents for a couple of days.

He whispered into the dark, “I can’t do this… I can’t…”

The crying continued long past the point where the body normally gives up. His face was soaked, the pillow damp, the room silent except for his ragged breathing. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook him. His arms ached from holding himself, his head throbbed, and his chest was raw. Finally, he fell asleep curled around the pillow, still clutching the last tangible piece of himself that he could grasp.

When he woke up, the world had changed.

The ceiling above him was different. The walls didn’t smell like stale coffee—they smelled like… something else. Something… old.

Mike’s eyes fluttered open. Sunlight slanted through blinds that were nothing like the ones in his bedroom. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, catching the light like tiny suspended stars.

He sat up. And froze.

The guitar in the corner… wasn’t his. Or at least, had not been his for a long time. It was smaller, older. Scuffed. The room itself looked different, lived-in in a way that wasn’t his apartment. Posters on the wall were… older. Posters of bands he vaguely recognized, but not the way he remembered them. Something about them made his stomach twist.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay… breathe. You’re… dreaming. This is a dream. It’s a dream. That’s it.”

He swung his legs off the bed and looked around. Nothing made sense. Nothing fit.

Then he saw it: the calendar on the wall.

January 2000.

Mike’s knees buckled. He fell back onto the bed. “No. No. No.”

He felt it before he saw it—like a punch to the gut. The memories of the future came rushing back, unbidden, unrelenting: the successes, the albums, the tours, the interviews, the late nights writing songs, the countless laughs—and the tragedy. Chester… gone.

“Gone,” Mike whispered, his voice barely audible. And now… he was here. In the past.

It took a moment for him to process. His mind raced. Time travel? Impossible. Dreams? Maybe. But this… this felt real. Too real.

A knock at the door made him jump.

“Yo! Mike? You awake in there, man?”

The voice was young, bright, energetic. Familiar, but… different. Mike’s heart stuttered.

He opened the door slowly. Standing there was… Chester. Young Chester. Dark hair, bright eyes, the smile that had haunted him in memory and haunted him now, full of life and mischief.

“Hey, man! You good? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Chester said, grinning.

Mike’s mouth went dry. The words caught in his throat. This wasn’t… this couldn’t be real. And yet, there he was. Alive. Laughing. Full of energy. The same eyes he had memorized from every concert, every video, every interview, every late-night conversation that now felt like they had been stolen from him.

“Chester…” Mike breathed.

Chester raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Mike felt tears prick his eyes again. But this time… they weren’t just grief. There was something else. Something… dangerous, thrilling, confusing. Something that made his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with loss.

“I… uh… I think I might be losing my mind,” Mike said, forcing a laugh. “Yeah. Totally losing it.”

Chester smirked. “Yeah? You talk a lot for someone who’s losing it. C’mon, breakfast’s on me.”

Mike followed, still in disbelief. Every movement was surreal. He felt like a ghost in his own life. The band was younger, the city was younger, the world was… younger. And yet… he could see the threads of the future, the successes, the heartbreaks, the moments that would define them all.

He realized something terrifying. He could change it. He could… maybe save Chester.

But at what cost?

He sat across from Chester at a small diner, the smell of eggs and bacon filling his nose. The young Chester laughed at a joke Mike didn’t even hear because he was too busy watching him. The energy, the warmth, the way Chester’s eyes crinkled at the corners… it was enough to make Mike’s chest hurt all over again.

And just like that, the seeds were planted. Not just the seeds of grief, not just the seeds of guilt—but of something else. Something dangerous. Something he had never allowed himself to feel.

Romance.

Mike had always loved Chester, in his own way. In the back of his mind, in the quiet moments between studio sessions and tours, there had been a tension, a bond stronger than friendship, more than anything he had admitted to himself. But now… now it wasn’t a “maybe someday” kind of thing. It was real. And it was terrifying.

“Hey,” Chester said, leaning forward, eyes bright. “You okay, man?”

Mike swallowed. He wanted to tell him everything. About 2017. About grief. About love. About losing him. But how could he? Would Chester believe him? Or would he think Mike was insane?

Instead, he smiled, shakily. “Yeah… yeah, I’m good. Just… tired, I guess.”

Chester nodded, satisfied. “Cool. Then let’s get to work. Band practice in an hour. You ready to lay down some beats?”

Mike nodded, feeling a strange thrill, a spark of life he hadn’t felt in a month. He was in the past, yes. But for the first time in what felt like forever, he had a purpose again. And Chester… Chester was here.

And Mike realized, with a mixture of fear and longing, that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to save the future. Or rewrite it.