The relative quiet of the early morning was shattered by a high-pitched wail. The boy's body tensed instinctively, his sleep-deprived mind struggling to process the sound. It was his little sister's cry, piercing and insistent, cutting through the walls of the house like a siren. He glanced at the clock: 7:15 AM. Right on schedule. His one-year-old sister, Autumn, had an uncanny ability to wake up at almost the exact same time every morning, her cries serving as a more effective alarm than any other device.
The sudden noise after hours of tense silence made him jump slightly. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his still-frayed nerves. The crying continued, rising and falling in intensity, a reminder of the normal, everyday life that existed beyond his night of fear and introspection. He could hear movement in the hallway now—the hurried footsteps of his parents responding to Autumn's calls. Muffled voices and the creak of a door opening drifted through the walls, followed by soothing whispers aimed at calming the upset toddler.
Slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his bare feet touched the cool wooden floor. His body felt heavy, weighed down by the lack of sleep and the emotional toll of the night. But there was also a sense of relief. The crying, as grating as it was, anchored him firmly in reality. This was his life—imperfect, sometimes annoying, but real. It was a stark contrast to the life he had glimpsed in his dream, the life of Mark, the man who had died alone and unfulfilled.
He stood up, stretching his arms above his head and feeling the satisfying pop of his joints. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye—pale face, dark circles under his grey eyes, his black hair sticking up at odd angles. He looked as exhausted as he felt. For a moment, again he thought he saw something else in the mirror—a flicker of an older face, lined with weariness and regret. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and it was gone, leaving only his own tired visage staring back at him.
Autumn's cries had subsided to sniffles and occasional whimpers. He could hear the gentle creaking of the baby rocker in her room, imagining one of his parents soothing her back to calmness. It was a familiar morning ritual, one that usually irritated him. Today, however, he found it oddly comforting. The sounds of his family—his parents' voices, Autumn's babbling, the rhythmic creak of the rocking chair—were a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of the abyss that had opened in his mind last night.
He grabbed a clean t-shirt from his drawer, changing out of his sweat-soaked pajama top. As he pulled the shirt over his head, he caught sight of his school backpack in the corner. The sight of it brought a rush of normalcy. There was homework to be done, classes to attend, the college entrance that he had to worry about. After the surreal experience of the night, the idea of such things were surprisingly welcome for him. But beneath the surface, some worry still lingered: What if I end up like that?
He shook his head, trying to dispel the thought. He couldn't let himself spiral like that. Not now. Not when the day was just beginning. He needed to focus on the present, on the things he could control. He made his way to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face and running his fingers through his unruly hair. The shock of the water helped clear his head, if only a little.
As he descended the stairs, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and toast grew stronger, mingling with the faint scent of his mother's lavender hand cream. His bare feet padded softly on the cool wooden steps, each one creaking slightly under his weight—a familiar symphony of home. Entering the kitchen, he blinked in the bright morning light streaming through the windows, dust motes dancing in the golden beams.
On his way, he briefly glanced at the wall-mounted holo-screen in the living room. A serious-looking news anchor was speaking, her voice a soft murmur barely audible from where he stood. What caught his attention, however, was the ticker scrolling at the bottom of the screen: "Breaking: Ascendants took back…" He turned his head away, not dwelling on the news. The world outside felt distant, almost irrelevant, compared to the storm raging inside him.
His mother stood at the stove, her back to him as she flipped pancakes with practiced ease. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a messy bun, wisps escaping to frame her face. She hummed softly, a lullaby from his childhood, as she worked. The familiar tune helped ease some of the tension from his shoulders. Sensing his presence, she turned, a warm smile lighting up her face. "Good morning, sweetheart," she said, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're up early. Did you sleep okay?" Concern tinged her voice, no doubt noticing his listless figure and the dark circles under his eyes.
Before he could answer, his father's voice boomed from the dining area, startling him slightly. "There's my boy! Come on, grab a seat. Your mom's pancakes are the perfect fuel for a growing young man." The cheerful tone was at odds with the boy's somber mood, but he appreciated the normalcy it brought to the morning.
"Dad, you know I don't like pancakes that much," he answered wryly, forcing a smile. His father chuckled and shook his head, not pressing the matter. The boy's father sat at the table, already dressed in his crisp white shirt and navy tie, ready for another day at the office. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, and he peered over his reading glasses at a holographic display floating above his wrist device, scrolling through what looked like work emails. The soft blue glow of the hologram cast strange shadows on his father's face.
As the boy settled into his usual chair, the familiar grain of the wooden seat beneath him, his mother placed a stack of toasted bread with bacon, ham, and egg in front of him. The plate clinked gently against the table, the sound oddly loud in his ears. "Eat up," she said, ruffling his black hair affectionately. Her touch lingered for a moment, as if sensing his unease. "You look tired, honey. Was it another bad dream?"
His father looked up from his device, concern etching lines on his forehead. The holographic display flickered off as he gave his son his full attention. "Nightmares again, son? Maybe we should look into those relaxation techniques they've been talking about. Supposed to help with sleep and all that." He reached across the table, giving the boy's hand a reassuring squeeze.
The boy nodded absently, his mind still processing the events of the night. He picked up his fork, the familiar weight of it in his hand grounding him in the present moment. The first bite of toasted bread and ham was savory and comforting, a taste that anchored him firmly in the here and now. But even as he ate, fragments of the dream—no, the memory—drifted through his mind. He could still see Mark's face, hear his voice, and feel the weight of his despair.
"No need, Dad. I can handle it myself," he said, forcing another smile. He turned his attention to his little sister, Autumn, who was banging a plastic spoon against her high chair tray, creating a rhythm that echoed through the kitchen. He started making funny faces at her, eliciting a burst of giggles that lightened the mood in the room. His parents exchanged a glance, their concern still visible but tempered by the sight of their children laughing together.
"So, any exciting plans for school today?" his father asked, pouring himself another cup of coffee. The rich aroma filled the air, mingling with the sweetness of syrup and the savory scent of bacon.
The boy hesitated, his mind racing. He wanted to tell them about the dream, about the memories that felt so real, about the fear that had taken root in his heart. But how could he explain something he didn't fully understand himself? Instead, he forced a smile and said, "There's a school tournament coming up. I'm thinking of joining."
His father's face lit up. "That's my boy! Always pushing yourself. Just remember to take care of yourself too, okay?"
The boy nodded, his chest tightening with a mix of gratitude and guilt. He didn't deserve their kindness, not when he was keeping such a heavy secret from them. But for now, he would play along, pretending everything was normal. He had to. Because the alternative—confessing the truth, admitting that he might be losing his mind—was too terrifying to consider.
As the morning wore on, the sounds of their family breakfast surrounded him—the clinking of cutlery against plates, soft laughter, the scrape of chairs on the floor, and quiet conversation. It calmed him. It was like a reminder of the life he still had, the life he needed to protect.
He didn't know what the future held, or how he would reconcile the two lives that now seemed to coexist within him. But one thing was clear: he couldn't let himself become like Mark. He couldn't let his life slip away into regret. He had to find meaning, purpose, something to make it all worthwhile. He would make the best of it, and his damndest to achieve it.
As he finished his breakfast and prepared for the day ahead, he made this silent promise to himself.