Emma's eyes snapped open, her heart pounding as if she'd been running. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar—white plaster with a faint crack snaking across it, not the smooth beige of her bedroom. The bed creaked beneath her, the mattress too firm, the sheets smelling faintly of lavender instead of the usual citrus detergent. She turned her head, expecting the ache of yesterday's chaos—Ethan's arrest, the police, the motorcycle—but instead, David's familiar silhouette lay beside her, his steady breathing filling the quiet room.
"David?" Her voice was a hoarse whisper, her throat dry. He stirred but didn't wake. The room was wrong—the curtains were heavy blue velvet, not the sheer linen she knew, and a small desk in the corner held a stack of books she didn't recognize. Her pulse quickened. Where was she? Where was Ethan?
A door slammed somewhere in the house, followed by the sharp clatter of footsteps. Emma swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet meeting a plush rug instead of hardwood. She stumbled to the hallway, her nightgown catching on her knees, and followed the sound to a kitchen she didn't know. Gleaming stainless steel appliances, a marble countertop, a window overlooking a garden she'd never seen. A teenage girl stood at the counter, her back to Emma, shoving books into a worn backpack. She was slight, with dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, her shoulders hunched in a gray hoodie.
"Ethan?" Emma's voice slipped out, instinctive, desperate. The girl froze, then turned, her eyes narrowing. Not Ethan. This was a stranger—a girl, maybe fifteen, with sharp cheekbones and a scowl that cut like a blade.
"Who's Ethan?" the girl snapped, her voice dripping with disdain. "God, you're so weird sometimes." She slung the backpack over her shoulder and headed for the door.
Emma's mind reeled. "Wait—where are you going?" She stepped forward, her hands outstretched, as if she could anchor herself to this moment, this girl. Her heart ached with a hollow pang, Ethan's face still vivid—the police car, his defiant glare. Where was he?
"School, obviously," the girl said, rolling her eyes. "I'm late, so, like, don't start." She pushed past Emma, her sneakers squeaking on the tile, and was out the door before Emma could stop her.
"Lily!" David's voice called from the stairs. He appeared, already dressed in a crisp shirt, his hair damp from a shower. "Lily, you forgot your—" He stopped, seeing the empty kitchen, then sighed, turning to Emma. "She's gone again, isn't she?"
"Lily?" Emma echoed, her voice trembling. The name felt foreign on her tongue, yet something in it tugged at her, like a half-remembered dream. "David, who's Lily?"
He frowned, his brow creasing with concern. "Our daughter, Emma. You okay? You look pale." He stepped closer, his hand brushing her arm, warm and familiar, but his eyes held that same flicker of worry she'd seen yesterday—or was it yesterday? Time felt slippery, like sand through her fingers.
"Our daughter?" Emma's voice cracked. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breathing. Ethan was her son. She could still hear his voice, feel the weight of his arrest. But this girl—Lily—her scowl, her hurried exit, felt just as real. "David, what's happening? Where's Ethan?"
David's face softened, but his eyes darkened with something unspoken. "Emma, you're doing it again. There's no Ethan. It's just Lily. You've been… stressed. Come on, sit down. I'll make coffee."
She shook her head, backing away. "No, I need to find her. Lily. She just left." Her maternal instincts kicked in, overriding the fog in her mind. Whoever this girl was, she was upset, and Emma couldn't let her disappear into the world alone. She grabbed a coat from a hook—when had she bought a red wool coat?—and rushed out the door.
The street outside was unfamiliar, lined with tidy row houses and bare trees under a gray sky. Lily's gray hoodie was a speck in the distance, moving fast. Emma jogged after her, her breath puffing in the cold air, her mind screaming with questions. Ethan's absence clawed at her heart, but Lily's presence demanded her attention. She reached into the coat pocket, hoping for a clue, and her fingers closed around a crumpled note in childish handwriting: "Don't follow me. I can handle it."
Emma stopped, her breath catching. The note was signed with a single letter: L. Her heart twisted, torn between the son she'd lost to a police car and the daughter she didn't know but already felt responsible for. What was happening to her? And why did Lily's handwriting feel like something she'd seen a lifetime ago?