Chapter 1: Shards of Sleep (Part 1)

The morning that wasn’t his.

When Rowan opened his eyes, the light didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t harsh or warm—it was something in between, soft like early dawn filtered through curtains he didn’t remember owning.

He lay still for a while, listening. Somewhere nearby, water was boiling. A kettle. Then, footsteps. Two sets—one light and quick, the other heavier, dragging slightly, like slippers across tiles.

He turned his head. A room. Not his room.

The walls were painted pale green. There was a photo frame on the bedside table: a woman, smiling, her arm around a boy of eight or nine. The man beside them—the man wearing the same watch now sitting on Rowan’s wrist—was him.

He blinked.

He didn’t move. He just kept staring, waiting for something inside him to catch up with what he was seeing.

The door creaked open.

“Dad, you’re awake!”

The boy’s voice hit him like a wave he didn’t brace for.

Before Rowan could answer, the child ran forward and climbed onto the bed, all messy hair and morning energy.

“Dad, Mum says breakfast’s getting cold. You promised to take me to school today, remember?”

Rowan opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

He nodded instead. A small, mechanical gesture, like muscle memory without context.

The boy grinned and dashed out again, leaving the scent of toast and sunlight behind.

Rowan sat up slowly. The room swayed. For a second, he thought he saw the walls breathe—just a trick of his eyes, maybe.

He touched his face. His skin felt the same. His heartbeat didn’t.

In the mirror across the room, his reflection blinked a moment slower than he did.

He froze.

Then the sound of clinking dishes came from the kitchen, followed by a woman’s voice.

“Rowan! Are you coming or not?”

He hesitated. The name felt right and wrong all at once. Like a song he’d forgotten the lyrics to.

He forced himself to stand.

“Yeah,” he said softly. The word cracked, foreign in his own throat. “Coming.”

The kitchen looked like every kitchen he’d ever imagined in a life he couldn’t recall: a small table, sunlight spilling across the tiles, a half-open window letting in the smell of wet grass.

The woman turned. She had the kind of face you’d expect to find in someone else’s memory—familiar yet unreachable.

Her hair was tied back. Her smile was tired but kind.

“You didn’t sleep much again, did you?” she asked, setting down a plate of eggs.

He shook his head before he could think.

“Guess not.”

She frowned slightly, then leaned closer, brushing a crumb off his sleeve with that small, unconscious affection that only exists between people who’ve done it a thousand times before.

“Try to rest tonight, okay? You’ve been working too hard.”

He nodded again. The motions came easily. The meaning didn’t.

The boy laughed from the living room, humming some cartoon tune. For a moment, the scene felt too real—painfully real.

Rowan looked at the woman again, trying to remember her name. Nothing surfaced.

But she looked back with eyes full of recognition.

That hurt the most.

On the way out, the boy held his hand.

Rowan didn’t mean to let him, but he didn’t pull away either. The warmth of that small hand was grounding, realer than anything else.

They walked down the street—sunlight, neighbours waving, the faint smell of rain on concrete.

When they reached the corner, the boy turned to him and said,

“Dad, you’re acting weird.”

Rowan forced a smile. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” the boy said with a laugh. “You keep looking around like you’ve never seen this place before.”

Rowan’s throat tightened.

“I guess I’m just… tired.”

The boy nodded, satisfied with that answer, and ran off towards the school gate.

Rowan watched until he disappeared into the crowd.

Then the quiet came back. Heavy.

He stood there for a while, not sure where to go. His feet wanted to turn back home, but his mind whispered: That’s not home.

He looked at his reflection in a parked car window.

For a second, it wasn’t his reflection. It was the boy’s face staring back.

Then it blinked, and the image was normal again.

A soft ringing sound filled his ears—like static, like memory.

He looked around. No one else seemed to hear it.

He pressed his palms to his ears, but the sound grew louder, turning into a voice.

A whisper, distant but unmistakable:

“Rowan… you’re almost there.”

He staggered back, heart pounding.

The world shimmered—just slightly, like heat rising off asphalt. Then it settled again. The air tasted like rain.

He stood there, motionless, for a long time.

And when he finally blinked, he was no longer sure whether his eyes had ever truly opened.

He went home that evening, silent. The house was the same. The dinner, the same. The woman smiled as if everything was normal.

But when she turned her back, the lights flickered.

In that brief darkness, the reflection in the kitchen window smiled before he did.

He didn’t sleep that night.

And when dawn came, the clock by his bed read 7:09—

and for the first time, he was certain he had seen that number before.

End of Chapter 1 — “Shards of Sleep (Part 1)”

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