Roll over, look at the human in bed beside you, try and remember why either of you are there. Introduce yourself, shyly. Make up a name because you don’t remember what your mother called you, don’t even remember your mother. But you remember what mothers are, at least, and assume you must be one when a little girl comes crashing into the bedroom wondering where she is, and why.
Look around your house, or the house you assume must be yours because you’re in it. Examine the photos, the unpaid bills, the clutter. See the cobwebs in the corner and the dusty bookshelves, see the dirty windows and the chipped paint. Try to read the contents of this house like tea leaves, only you’re looking into the past and not the future.
Make breakfast for your strange family. Your hands reach for what you need without thought, somehow smarter than you are. They know this place, even if you don’t. Trust them. Trust them when they caress the little girl’s cheek, wipe away her tears, give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. Trust them when they reach for the man’s hand, linked fingers fitting together like upside-down puzzle pieces that make a picture even if you don’t know what it is.
Open the door. Look out at the fresh mystery of the world. Hear it singing, feel its hum deep in your belly. It could be yours, if you want it.
But…
Choose here. This life.
Again.
On purpose.
Corrie Haldane’s work has most recently appeared in The Quiet Ones 2025, Fraidy Cat Quarterly Vol. 7, and Spectacular, Spectacular!: An Anthology of Circensian Horror. Corrie lives in Ontario, Canada. She finds inspiration in nature, baths, and carefully curated playlists. Find her online: www.corriehaldane.com.
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