Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. But was pushed away, rudely by a tall man. He walked in, I had seen him before. Years younger. The features were still the same. He walked straight for me, not hesitating. Called to me: "Jacob.". The voice too was familiar but different somehow. His eyes were my father's, the nose too. But it was not him, nor was it my brother.

He talked fast: "I have to prove something."
I didn't know how to reply, I couldn't place him. That face, I felt if I had seen it a million times, when it was younger. "What?" was all that came out of my lips.

"That changing the past doesn't change the future." and with those words the shot rang out, the bullet tearing a hole in his pocket, a hole in my chest.

The face, it was me.