Three hours later, Aarav looked in the mirror. His own mother didn’t recognize him. He smiled like he’d just hit a century.
Aarav pointed at the Pompadour Fade. “That one.”
Finally, the —2023. Volume on top like a cresting wave, skin fade on the sides, a small beard to match. The photo showed him at an airport, sunglasses on, looking like he owned time itself.
He opened his phone and searched:
