23rd June 1995, Rich Manor
A young man with tan, mocha‑colored skin and dark hair streaked with red slowly opened his eyes.
The first thing he noticed was the ceiling.
It stretched high above him, vast and ornate, covered in elaborate patterns crafted with restraint—luxurious without being gaudy. The designs were unmistakably African in origin, ancient and deliberate. Some might have even called them magical.
The second thing he noticed was the room.
It was enormous. Not merely large, but impossibly so, the kind of space that made the mind struggle to comprehend its scale. As the fog of sleep continued to lift, his awareness drifted downward—toward the bed.
The bed was massive. So large, in fact, that it probably didn't conform to any standard size known to man. It was impossibly soft, the kind of softness one imagined clouds might have if clouds could be slept on.
Then he noticed himself.
His hands looked young. Alarmingly so. Smooth, unscarred, unburdened by time. He lifted one to his face, tracing unfamiliar contours, only to confirm the same truth.
Immediately, his mind arrived at the only conclusion that made sense.
'This is a dream.'
Satisfied with that explanation, he relaxed. If his mind was generous enough to conjure wealth, comfort, and youth, then the least he could do was enjoy it. He shifted, preparing to sink back into the cloudlike mattress—
—when the door suddenly burst open.
A girl rushed in, appearing to be around the same age as his current body. She had blonde hair, bright sapphire eyes, and wore a blue‑and‑white dress accented by a matching headband. Her energy filled the room instantly.
With a wide, peppy smile, she ran forward and jumped onto the bed.
"Theo! Your dad is looking for you—he says it's urgent!" she said, poking his cheek.
The young man groaned and rolled onto his side, facing away from her, determined to reclaim that perfect half‑asleep state.
The girl sighed, clearly used to his antics. Rolling her eyes, she hopped off the bed, grabbed the plush leather blanket, and yanked it away with force.
"Theo!" she shouted. "Your father just brought home a baby from the hospital. He said he's your little brother!"
That did it.
His eyes snapped open.
'Well,' he thought, 'if the dream wants me out of bed, I guess I'd better play along.'
Not vague impressions or dream‑logic fragments, but clear, personal recollections tied directly to her presence. Shared conversations. Familiar irritation. Quiet understanding.
"Lead the way, Maria," he said flatly.
As she skipped ahead toward the door, he paused hesitating.
'Is this really a dream?' he wondered.
Everything felt too real. The weight of the air in his lungs. The softness and texture of the carpet beneath his feet. The way his name sounded when spoken aloud. The memories that shouldn't exist—but did.
And for the first time since waking up, doubt crept in. Not sharp enough to panic, but heavy enough to linger.
And for the first time since waking up, Theodore wondered whether this wasn't a dream at all—
—but a life he had somehow forgotten.