When I was born, I looked like an old man. Fresh out of my mother's womb and greeted by artificial lights, my body was already wrinkled with age. Is this a curse, or a blessing? My guardian, trapped in this different timeline called 'retrograde,' decided not to define it. After all, I would be the only one suffering within that time.

When I looked in the mirror for the first time, I felt utterly foreign to myself. The eyes of a newborn should be clear and transparent, but mine were clouded as if they had endured countless years, and my skin was etched with the marks of time I hadn't even lived yet. People called me a miracle. Some whispered that I was a prank played by God. But no one explained to me what a miracle was, or what it meant to be a divine prank. To them, I was merely an incomprehensible phenomenon, an imperfect being who had cracked the logic of the world.

By the time I saw the results with my own eyes—that no historical records or data could define my condition—I had become a college student. Still trapped in the body of an 80-year-old man.