I stumbled into my apartment, exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin. The weight of the day bore down on my shoulders, and the cold beer in my hand seemed like the only solace. Sinking into the couch, I let out a deep sigh; the conversation with my boss kept replaying in my head.

The words echoed relentlessly, each one increasing my frustration.

"Adler, we need to talk about your performance."

"These numbers are abysmal."

"What's going on? Are you even trying?"

"You've been slacking off, and it reflects poorly on the entire team."

As I replayed the conversation in my head, anger bubbled up within me. Frustration mounted, and I muttered under my breath, "That fucker, what does he know?" The cold beer, meant to soothe, offered little comfort. The reality of my current situation weighed on me — stuck with a dead-end job and a nonexistent social life.

My eyes scanned the room, landing on the typewriter tucked away in the corner — a gift from my mother. Looking back at my life, I only had regrets. Once, I harbored big dreams; writing had been my passion. However, my life took a drastic turn when my mother died. I had tried not to think about her much, but I guess I am still not over her death. It had been just her and me for most of my life; she worked tirelessly to raise me. When she died, it was as if something broke within me, and suddenly, I was thrown into the world alone. Survival took precedence over dreams, and now I was stuck in a dead-end job.

I couldn't escape the haunting question of what my life had become; dark thoughts consumed me as I sat there alone with nothing but the taste of unfulfilled ambitions. My eyes became weary, and I couldn't hold back sleep any longer. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the pull of exhaustion.

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When I woke up again, it was very disorienting. Instead of the ceiling of my apartment, I found myself surrounded by walls plastered with colorful posters of cartoons I hadn't seen in years. Nostalgia mingled with confusion, creating a peculiar brew of emotions. I felt smaller for some reason. "What happened?" I muttered, but the voice that came out was that of a child-sized.

Hearing a child's voice, I said, "Who is that?" Wait, it's me. It was my voice. I looked at my hands, and panic spread through me. I let out a scream. "AHHHH, what the heck is happening?" I looked around the room and realized that this was my old room when I was a kid. I got off the bed and went to the mirror in the room. Staring back at me was the face of my ten-year-old self.

"What's going on?" I mumbled. The words were barely audible. I looked around again at the posters on the wall, the small bookshelf from a happier time in my life.

"Is this a dream? A hallucination?" I questioned, almost expecting the room to dissolve around me, revealing my familiar apartment.

"Danny, what's wrong, sweetheart?" That voice I hadn't heard in years. I slowly turned my head, and to my shock, I saw my mother standing in the doorway with a worried expression on her face. Emotions swirled within me. Without a word, she closed the distance between us. She must have seen the distress on my face, wrapping me in an embrace that felt achingly real. Her warmth and the familiar scent of her perfume enveloped me.

"Mom?" I croaked out, a mixture of disbelief and longing in my voice.

She pulled away slightly, holding me at arm's length, her eyes searching mine. "Why did you scream, sweetheart? Did you have a nightmare?" Her soothing voice was both familiar and surreal, a melody from the past.

"I... I don't know. This is... it's impossible. You... you're not supposed to be here," I managed to say, my hands gesturing to the room around us.

Her brow furrowed with concern, and she gently cupped my face in her hands. "You're scaring me, Danny. What's going on? Talk to me."

I didn't know what to say.

"You've always had such a vivid imagination, Danny. You just had a nightmare; everything's going to be alright."

I nodded slowly, but the weight of the situation still hung heavily in the air. "But it feels so real," I said slowly.

She smiled gently, her fingers brushing away a strand of hair from my forehead. "It was just a dream, honey. Come on, go to your bed. Everything will make more sense after a good night's sleep."

I wanted to believe her, to accept this comforting explanation. The room, my mother, all seemed vividly real. I glanced at the mirror, catching a glimpse of my ten-year-old self.

Mom guided me back to the bed, tucking me in with the same care she had when I was a child. The softness of the familiar sheets, the comforting scent of my childhood room, and the presence of my mother lulled me into a sense of security. As she sat by my side, soothing me with gentle words, sleep overcame me once again.

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I woke up again expecting to be back in my apartment but in my old room once more it was a surreal feeling to know realize that it was all a dream shivers went down my spine thinking of the implications of this situation.

The room was bathed in the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtains. "This is not a dream. I am a ten-year-old again, and Mom's alive," I muttered to myself. I had a chance to rewrite the direction of my life; I could save my mom. Many possibilities rushed through my head, but a darker part of me still thought this was just a very immersive dream. I pushed those thoughts aside.

I stepped out of bed to start the day. The wonderful smell of breakfast wafted through the air, and a surge of nostalgia hit me as I recognized the smell of my mother's pancakes. It was a scent I thought I had lost forever.

I walked into the kitchen, finding my mother humming a familiar tune as she flipped pancakes on the stove.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she greeted me, her eyes sparkling with warmth. "Did you sleep well?"

I stood there, frozen for a moment, taking in the scene. The familiar kitchen, the comforting aroma of pancakes, and the presence of my mother, alive and well.

Mom joined me at the table, concern still etched on her face. "Did you sleep well after that nightmare, sweetheart?" she asked, her eyes searching mine for any lingering distress.

"Yeah, I guess," I replied, trying to shake off the strangeness of the situation. The reality of being a ten-year-old again, coupled with the vivid memories of my adult life, created a weird blend of emotions.

We finished breakfast in a comfortable silence, the clinking of utensils against plates filling the air. I finished and went back to my room, determination crystallized within me. I couldn't ignore the opportunity that had presented itself. This was a chance to reshape my life, to make it better not just for me, but for my mother too.

The opportunities seemed endless as I started to plan out my future.

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