Finally, by mustering up, I stepped inside the room and looked all around. This room was not any other room. Or let's say you think it is one of those rooms with such luxury that you cannot comprehend the scenery. No baby. You're wrong. This is just not any other room. This is the same room my parents made for me in my childhood. The same paintings, the same color, the same bed, the same desk with the same bookshelf! And oh my god, the detail of fairy lights around? Exactly what mom made for me. Tears welled up in my eyes as I reached for the bedsheet. The fabric felt familiar. The rundown was so accurate that I forgot that this was not my house. How is this even possible? What happened here? Why would someone do this?
I gathered up more courage and stepped deeper into the room. Swirling two-three times together, my brain was finally adjusting to the impossible.
