The last thing Paul heard was his daughter saying, "I love you daddy!" through her tears.

His eyes snapped open.

His first coherent thought was, 'I'm not in pain.'

That was a significant achievement. Paul couldn't remember the last time that statement was true. Either his back, or his knees, or later pretty much all over. Cancer is shit. But he didn't hurt. He savored that for a long moment before looking around. The room was unfamiliar. It certainly wasn't the hospice, or if it was, they redecorated while he was out. It had a hotel feel. It was well decorated but impersonal, yet familiar. He lifted his arm to rub his eyes and stopped in shock. His hand was young.

Paul was 90. His hands were 90 year old hands. Gnarled and age-spotted. Knuckles big with arthritis, skin thin with prominent veins. These hands were young, strong. He felt his face. He had a beard. He hadn't had the beard since Meg died. She loved him bearded. He shaved it the day after her funeral, it hurt too much to see in the mirror, made him miss her all the more. His hands explored. Hair. A lot of hair. He kept his hair longer than most men, but by 85 he was fully bald. He lifted the sheet. He was naked, his body that of a young man, thirtyish, strong. He had both his balls. He felt to make sure. He lost the left one to cancer 20 years ago. It was back. Touching his balls made his cock stir. He remembered that feeling. In moments he was impressively hard.

"Holy shit," he murmured. "Hello old friend."

He vaulted out of bed, stronger than he had felt for a long, long time. He looked for a mirror. He found the bathroom and leaned over the sink, studying himself.

He peered back from the mirror, but it was the Paul of 60 years ago looking back at him.

"Motherfucker!" he swore softly.

A face appeared in the mirror behind him. A very familiar face, beautiful, young, healthy. His mouth dropped open and his eyes clouded with tears. The face smirked at him.

"What the fuck took you so long? It's about time you got here," Meg said.