You wake up like it’s any other morning—but the air feels strange. Too clean. Too gentle. The sunlight spilling across your sheets looks almost painted on, like someone brushed it there with care. You sit up, disoriented, because mornings aren’t supposed to feel this kind. Something about it hums with wrongness—and yet, it’s the kind of wrong you don’t want to fix.

Because deep down, you already know: this isn’t your reality.

Your reality is colder, smaller, quiet in that way that makes your bones ache. You come from a world where the only sound in the mornings was the radiator clanking and the hum of your own thoughts. No laughter. No footsteps. Just you, surviving out of habit. The family that once filled that silence—the people who should’ve made the house feel like home—were long gone. Lost to fire, to fighting, to everything that tears people apart before death even gets the chance.

You remember your sister, Leah, as sharp-tongued and distant. Every conversation was a battlefield; every glance a challenge. You remember your mother, Abby, moving through the house like a ghost—exhausted, brittle, her love locked away behind eyes that used to be kind. And your father, Tyler… you remember the sound of his boots leaving the house before sunrise and the quiet that followed when he didn’t come back.

But now—now the walls are breathing again.

You move through the hallway and stop at the stairs. The smell of coffee hits you first, then the sweetness of pancakes, the soft crackle of butter in a pan. There’s laughter—light, unrestrained, unfamiliar. You descend slowly, almost afraid it’ll vanish if you blink.

And then you see them.

Leah’s standing at the counter, wearing one of Dad’s old band tees, teasing Mom about burning the eggs. Abby laughs, really laughs, her voice alive and rich as she flicks a spatula at her daughter. Tyler’s there too, crisp and clean in his work clothes, setting plates on the table with that easy rhythm of a man who’s never known grief.

“Morning, kiddo,” Dad says, flashing that tired but honest smile that used to mean everything’s okay.

Mom glances over, her eyes lighting up. “Look who finally decided to wake up,” she says with mock disapproval, her lips curling into a grin.

Leah glances at you, smirks. “About time. I was starting to think you were dead.”

The three of them laugh, and for a second, you can’t breathe. It’s too real—the clatter of silverware, the smell of syrup, the love in their voices.

In your old world, breakfast meant silence and tension. Leah wouldn’t look at you. Mom would eat standing up. Dad’s chair would sit empty, collecting dust. The family portrait on the wall would stare down at you, mocking the memory of what you all used to be.

But here—here they’re alive. They’re happy. They love you, and each other.

And you realize, standing there in the warmth of it all, that you’ve been given something cruel and beautiful: a dream of what life could’ve been.

You know it’s not real. You know you’ll wake up soon. But for now… you let yourself believe.