---
Rain pressed softly against the window.
It wasn't loud. It didn't ask for attention.
It simply existed—persistent, like grief that no longer weeps, but never leaves.
Rane stood in the center of a narrow room, his breath trembling like a curtain in half-light.
The air smelled of damp wood and something else—a memory that didn't belong to him, yet lived beneath his skin like a bruise.
---
There were toys in the corner.
Not scattered—placed. Carefully.
A small wooden horse. A red sock missing its pair.
A folded drawing taped to the wall: a family of three, smiling with impossible certainty.
He didn't remember this place.
He didn't know the names on the framed photos.
But his hands… they reached for the drawing with the sorrow of someone who had drawn it.
" Where am I? " he whispered.
' Who left this life behind… and why do I feel like it was me? "
---
The sound of a kettle warming broke the silence—not a hiss, but a hum, like something trying to speak without words.
From the kitchen came footsteps. Slow. Familiar.
A woman appeared—older than he remembered, but beautiful in the way that sadness carves into grace. She looked at him.
Not with surprise.
But with a tired kindness.
" You haven't spoken in days " she said, voice soft as steam.
"I thought you'd left again "
Rane couldn't speak.
Her presence hurt in a way he couldn't name.
---
She poured two cups of tea. One with sugar, one without.
" She would've been eleven this week " she said, eyes not quite meeting his.
" I sometimes forget how small her hands were "
Rane looked down. His hands were shaking.
In his chest, something twisted—not fear, but a grief that belonged to a man he was becoming.
" Was I a good father? " he asked.
The woman blinked slowly. Her smile didn't rise.
" You tried "
---
That night, he sat alone by the child's bed.
It was still made.
The blanket hadn't been folded. It still held the shape of a dream never finished.
The stars outside blinked like questions with no language.
" If I am only a version of her " Rane thought,
" then whose pain is this? "
He ran a hand along the bed frame.
It was scratched. On the underside, tiny letters had been carved:
Love you always!,Dad
---
A sound came from behind him.
Not loud. Not sudden.
Just enough to pull his soul backwards.
The door creaked slightly. Not from movement—but from absence.
He turned—not with fear, but with reverence.
And in the hallway stood a child.
Smiling.
Not a ghost.
Not quite a memory.
Not quite real.
Just… present.
" Hi, Dad!!" the gurl said.
" Will you stay this time? "
---
Rane's heart broke in silence.
And the world folded.
---
He awoke
Back in a room too clean to be lived in.
His hotel. His desk. His books.
But beneath his fingernails, a tiny flake of red crayon.