The scent of eggs and butter pulled Alex from a restless sleep. Somewhere nearby, a kettle whistled sharply, followed by a soft clatter of dishes and the faint hum of a woman's voice. Birds chirped outside an open window, and sunlight warmed the cotton sheets wrapped around him.
He blinked at the ceiling above. White, with a crack near the corner and glow-in-the-dark stars scattered in no apparent pattern. It wasn't familiar. Nothing here was.
For a moment, panic fluttered in his chest.
Who am I?
No—not quite. He knew who he was. James. James Hargrove. Former schoolteacher. Fifty-two. Lived alone in a flat in Manchester. Had no pets, no family—well, not anymore. He remembered the rain. The alley. The girl with the pink backpack. The knife.
And then… nothing.
Now, he was in a child's bed, in a child's room, with small hands and legs that didn't reach the floor when he swung them out of bed.
"Alex! Come down, darling! Breakfast is getting cold!" the voice called again.
Alex.
The name rang in his ears like a bell half-remembered from a dream.
That was him now. Alex. Somehow, inexplicably, he'd awoken in the body of a young boy—ten years old, maybe eleven—with a room full of hand-drawn dinosaurs, neatly stacked schoolbooks, and a battered football poster hanging above the desk.
A knock came at the door. "Still asleep, you muppet?" a deeper voice said, cheerful and teasing. "Mum made eggs again."
The door cracked open, and a little girl peeked in, her face half-lost beneath a curtain of golden curls. "Awwex!" she squeaked with delight and toddled in, arms raised.
Before he could react, she threw her arms around his waist, hugging him tight. "Morning, sleepy bear!"
He stared at her for a second, startled.
She couldn't have been older than four. Her cheeks were full and rosy, and her smile revealed a gap where one of her baby teeth had gone missing.
"Come on," she said, tugging at his hand. "Mummy said no more dawdlin'."
He let her lead him. Down a staircase with creaky wooden steps, through a hallway lined with photographs—laughing children, a smiling couple, beach holidays, birthdays. And then into a cozy kitchen lit by morning sun and the golden glow of warm, loving routine.
His mother—no, Alex's mother—stood at the stove, humming as she flipped eggs onto plates. She had auburn hair tied up in a loose bun and wore a mustard-colored cardigan over a house dress. She glanced up as he entered, her eyes lighting up.
"Good morning, love," she said. "We thought we'd lost you to the dreamlands."
"Barely got him out of bed," the man at the table added. His voice was gentle but grounded, with a London lilt. Broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up, newspaper already folded on the table beside him. "Morning, champ."
Alex nodded mutely, sliding into the empty seat between his sister and his—father? The word tasted strange in his mouth. James Hargrove's own father had died when he was young, and the idea of having one again felt… foreign. Unreal.
"Mum," the little girl whispered loudly. "He's actin' funny."
"I'm just tired," Alex said quickly, the words instinctual.
His mother placed a plate in front of him—eggs, toast, baked beans. Comfort food. She ruffled his hair. "Still adjusting, I reckon. You were talking in your sleep again last night."
He looked up sharply. "What was I saying?"
She shrugged, distracted by the boiling kettle. "Something about rain and a girl. You kept saying sorry."
Alex's fork paused midway to his mouth.
The girl.
She had been crying. Backed against the wall. Then gone.
Did she get away?
His stomach turned. The food on his plate suddenly felt heavier than stone.
"You okay?" his father asked.
Alex nodded again. "Yeah. Just… weird dreams."
"Dreams are like fog," the man replied, returning to his tea. "They look like something solid until you try to hold 'em. Then poof. Nothing there."
Alex forced a small smile. "Yeah. Exactly."
His little sister poked at her beans with a finger. "I dreamed I was a dragon," she said proudly. "I ate all the bad guys."
"Ate, sweetheart," their mother corrected as she poured tea into a pair of chipped mugs.
"Ate all the bad guys," she repeated, giggling.
The conversation moved on, swirling around him like music from a radio left on in the background. School projects, Dad's shift at the garage, Mum's errands. It was a normal morning. Ordinary. Gentle. And yet, every minute felt like walking through a dream Alex wasn't sure he belonged in.
After breakfast, as his mother helped the little one wash jam from her hands and his father stepped out for work, Alex lingered at the table. The newspaper still lay open.
He pulled it closer.
"More Vanishings Reported in East Borough—Police Have No Leads"The headline was printed in bold, blocky font. Below it, a grainy photograph showed a dim alleyway cordoned off by police tape.
Something twisted in his chest.
The article read:
Several residents of East Borough have been reported missing over the past three weeks, most of them from low-income neighbourhoods or temporary housing blocks. Authorities say the disappearances follow no clear pattern and are urging anyone with information to come forward. While the police deny speculation of organised foul play, local communities remain on edge.
It was dated June 12th, 1983.
Alex's brow furrowed.
He reached toward his plate, absentmindedly spinning his fork between his fingers. He didn't remember much. Not clearly. His memories of James were like fragments of torn pages from a book soaked in water—blurred, bleeding at the edges. Names, faces, the feel of chalk on a blackboard, the voice of a crying girl. Then silence.
And now this.
A new family. A warm home. A second chance?
And yet, something was off. There was a pattern here he couldn't see yet, a thread just out of reach. The newspaper's ink smudged faintly beneath his thumb.
Disappearing people. Cities with secrets. Parallel Earth or not, this world was no utopia.
Somewhere deep inside him, the part that was still James Hargrove stirred.
He had died protecting a child.
Now, perhaps, he'd been reborn to protect many more.
Alex folded the newspaper, eyes still on the photo of the alleyway.
And for the first time since waking up in this strange, warm world—
He began to wonder what had really brought him here.