Morning came with the dull ache still pressing behind my eyes.
I lay there longer than I should have, staring at the ceiling, half expecting it to dissolve if I kept looking. It didn't. The smell of coal smoke and boiled water drifted into my nose instead grounding, unpleasantly real.
A knock sounded at the wooden door.
A voice followed familiar, yet not the one I'd heard last night.
"Caelum, breakfast is ready. Hurry, or it'll get cold."
My response came almost instantly, instinct overtaking thought.
"Yeah, I'm coming. Give me a couple of minutes."
There was no pause before the reply.
"When the food's cold, don't blame me. I warned you."
"Okay, okay," I muttered, pushing myself up from the bed.
I stood slowly, the fatigue from last night still clinging to my limbs. Crossing the room, I stopped at the washstand and glanced at the mirror only briefly.
I sighed.
"Is this really my life now?" I murmured. "How did it come to this?"
My body moved without hesitation. I picked up the paste that vaguely resembled toothpaste, grabbed the brush, and went through the motions. Brush. Rinse. Wash my face.
Routine perfectly practiced.
I crossed the room and twisted the doorknob, the action still feeling faintly unfamiliar, as if my hand remembered it better than I did.
The hallway floor creaked beneath my feet as I stepped out. I took in the layout of the house automatically, only realizing a moment later that my feet were already moving carrying me toward the smell of food.
I passed through another doorway and found myself facing two familiar figures.
My mother and my sister.
My sister sat at the table with one leg tucked beneath her chair, spoon tapping softly against the bowl impatience and youthful energy that hadn't yet been worn down by the world.
I studied them discreetly before taking the nearest seat.
My mother looked worn by years of careful endurance. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose, practical bun, strands streaked with early gray escaping around her temples. Fine lines framed her eyes and mouth not harsh, but permanent. Her face wasn't especially striking, yet it carried a quiet warmth that softened her expressions, even when she scolded. Her hands were rough and calloused, marked by needle pricks and faint burns.
My sister's hair was a lighter shade, cut just past her shoulders and tied back carelessly, as if she never bothered to tame it properly. Strands slipped loose no matter how often she brushed them aside. Her face was lively and expressive quick to frown, quicker to smirk. She had his eyes… or rather, the eyes this body remembered having: observant, restless, always watching. There was a stubborn sharpness to her posture, chin slightly raised, as if she refused to be overlooked.
"You're late," she said, impatience edging her voice.
My mouth responded before I could stop it.
"My sincere apologies. I didn't realize you were in charge of the schedule."
She opened her mouth to fire back-
"Eat," my mother said, tapping the table lightly. "Thinking on an empty stomach never leads anywhere good."
I picked up the spoon without argument. The porridge was still warm, faintly sweet, its texture familiar before the memories could tell me why. I took a cautious bite.
It tasted… normal.
That realization settled something uneasy in my chest.
Across from me, my sister watched for a moment before returning to her meal, her impatience already fading. She ate quickly, as if afraid the food might vanish if she didn't. I remembered he remembered that she was always like this.
My mother cradled her bowl in both hands, her eyes flicking toward me now and then. Not scrutinizing. Just checking. Making sure I was there.
"You look tired," she said after a moment. "Did you stay up late again?"
I hesitated just long enough to notice it.
"…Couldn't sleep," I answered.
She sighed softly, the sound carrying more concern than frustration. "Try not to push yourself so hard. You're not made of iron."
I nodded and took another bite.
The room filled with small, ordinary sounds the scrape of spoon against ceramic, the muted patter of rain outside, the faint groan of the house settling as it always did. Nothing felt strange. Nothing felt wrong.
And yet every movement I made followed paths worn smooth by someone else's life.
When the bowl was empty, I set the spoon down carefully.
"I'll head out soon," I said, the words coming easily.
My mother nodded. "Be careful on the streets."
My sister glanced up. "Don't get lost."
"I won't."
I stood, pushed the chair back into place, and headed for the door. My hand closed around the handle, and I paused not because I didn't know what lay beyond it.
But because I did.
This world wasn't waiting for explanations.
It was already moving.
And now, so was I.