The thought hit her like a stone to the chest.
Months. She had been in Arbor for months.
But this, this wasn't Arbor.
Arbor? Who is Arbor? The house? No. That can't be real.
This wasn't real.
But just as the floor started to shift beneath her thoughts—
"Mommy!"
Mireya's voice called down the hall.
Annie looked up. The little girl appeared at the doorway, her pajamas dusted with flour, her curls wild with static. She was holding a wooden spoon like a sword.
"Come help! Daddy is not good at this."
Malvor laughed from the kitchen. "Hey!"
Annie smiled despite herself. Soft. Sad. Sweet.
She got out of bed, setting the mug down like it might bite her again, and padded barefoot into the kitchen where pancakes were burning and syrup had exploded across the counter like confetti.
Mireya reached for her immediately. "Help me flip the next ones? He keeps making them weird shapes."
"They are dinosaurs," Malvor said indignantly.
"They're blobs," Mireya whispered, with the full sincerity of a betrayed child.
Annie picked up the spatula and wrapped her arms around her daughter from behind, helping her slide it under the batter. The heat of the stove, the giggle of the girl, the comfortable chaos of a kitchen mid-breakfast—
It all looked right.
But the coffee still sat on her tongue like ash.
And somewhere deep in her bones, Annie knew:
This wasn't home.
Malvor handed her a to-go coffee cup, thankfully not made by him this time and leaned in to kiss her forehead.
"I've gotta head to work," he said, straightening his tie.
Work?
She blinked. "Wait… what do you do again?"
He grinned as he adjusted his wrinkled suit in the mirror, cheap fabric, generic cut, the kind you buy off a rack and wear until the seams give up.
Just for a second, a flicker, she saw him differently.
A tailored suit. Dark silk. Gold cufflinks. A grin sharp enough to cut glass.
Then it was gone.
Back to polyester and peeling collar seams.
She blinked.
He kept talking like nothing had happened.
"Those ones and zeroes don't write themselves," he said, mock typing in the air. "Big launch coming. Stress levels at a solid eleven."
He kissed her again, cheerful, casual.
A programmer. Right. Of course he was.
She nodded slowly. "Right. Okay."
"I'll take Mirrie to preschool on the way."
Mirrie, dressed proudly in a fluffy pink dress, cape, and mismatched sparkly shoes, skipped into the room and twirled for both of them.
"I am the princess and the superhero today!"
Malvor gave an exaggerated bow. "Your majesty."
Annie helped her tie her shoes, fingers moving on autopilot while her brain churned with static. Nothing about this morning was wrong, but none of it was right, either.
She kissed them both goodbye at the door, waved as they drove off in a silver sedan she did not remember owning.
Then closed the door.
And froze.
What now?
The house was silent. Still. Almost too quiet.
She wandered into the living room and found her laptop exactly where it always waited. Open. Charged. Familiar.
Because she was a writer.
Right?
She sat down.
The screen blinked to life, opening a half-finished document.
Not a novel.
Not anything exciting.
Proofreading. Technical copy. Dry marketing blogs for something about dental tools.
She read a paragraph three times and retained none of it. It was dull. Lifeless. Like someone had taken her passion and stripped it for parts.
She clicked through her folders, looking for anything more.
And then she saw it.
A hidden folder.
No name, just a black icon buried under layers of organized nothing.
She hesitated.
Then opened it.
Inside: a single file. A document titled "Her Life, Rewritten."
The words on the page weren't proofread, weren't dull. They pulsed. Real. Strange. Familiar.
It was a story.
A story about a woman who lived in a lie so convincing, she didn't even remember what she had lost.
A woman with runes on her skin.
A house that loved her.
A god who held her while she slept.
Annie's breath caught.
The world around her flickered.
The room shivered, just once, like a light bulb before it burns out.
And then—
Her phone rang.
Shrill. Too loud.
Too real.
She reached for it with shaking hands.
The screen read: Unknown Caller.
But she answered anyway.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end crackled slightly, too clear and too distant at once.
"Is this Mrs. Theós-Kakó? Your daughter is not feeling well. She's running a mild fever and says she wants her mom."
Annie's mouth went dry.
"My, my daughter?"
"Yes, ma'am. Mireya. She is in the nurse's office. Can you come pick her up?"
"…I will be right there."
The line went dead.
She stood in the middle of the kitchen, hand still holding the phone long after the call had ended. The room looked… thinner. Washed out at the edges. Like it knew it had been caught and was tightening its grip.
But Annie shoved her feet into shoes and grabbed her keys like a mother on autopilot. Like a mother whose daughter was sick. Like a mother should.
She drove.
The roads were smooth and soft-lit, the kind where nothing ever truly aged or cracked. The houses blurred past in a haze of comforting normalcy. Trees swayed in a breeze she couldn't feel.
When she pulled into the preschool parking lot, everything was painted in calm colors, cheerful murals, pastel fences. Smiling teachers with soft voices.
Mireya was waiting in the nurse's office, cheeks flushed, curls matted to her forehead. As soon as she saw Annie, she perked up.
"Mama!"
Annie knelt and scooped her up into her arms. Mireya clung to her like she hadn't seen her in years.
"You don't look sick," Annie murmured softly.
The little girl giggled. "I feel better now. 'Cause you're here."
Annie's heart clenched, twisted in too many directions. She hugged her tighter.
"Let's go home."