Luke was falling through endless darkness, a descent that felt like it cut through time itself. He tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat. There was no wind, no air, just the crushing weight of a void swallowing him whole. For a moment, he thought he would vanish into it forever, until something solid caught him. A bed.He jolted upright and stared at his hands, at his body. He was alive. But how? How had he gotten here? Why had he been falling? His heart raced as he looked around.

This wasn't the forest where he'd dozed off. The realization hit him all at once. He was in a room, a familiar room. The walls seemed to breathe memories. Rain hammered the window in uneven bursts, like impatient fingers drumming against glass. Each thunderclap made the fragile pane tremble, and the faint reflection of his face flickered with every flash of lightning. The whole room breathed with the storm, alive with echoes of old memories. The sound was strangely comforting, an echo from a life he thought he'd forgotten.

He touched the blanket, breathed in the faint scent of home, and felt warmth bloom in his chest.

"I'm home!" he shouted, standing abruptly.

He'd done it. He was back. Luke had returned to Earth.

"How? How is this possible?"

He was back in his room, the same one where, in the past, he had accepted being integrated into the system and vanished, teleported away. He had returned. He was out of the tutorial.

He stepped forward and nearly tripped on something. A toy car. He frowned, scanning the room. There were more toys scattered everywhere, colorful blocks, action figures he could've sworn he'd lost, posters of old cartoons yellowed with time. Along one wall stood a height chart with a smiling giraffe, marking a boy's growth in hopeful, childish scribbles. A small table was cluttered with colored pencils.

This wasn't his adult room. It was the room from his childhood.

"I'm… in the past?" he whispered.

Then he saw it. A small figure by the window. It was him. A younger Luke stood on a chair, staring silently outside.

Luke approached slowly, every step dragging a ghost of memory behind it. He recognized the gesture instantly — that lonely ritual of watching, waiting, pretending not to hope. He'd done it for years, too many years, until hope had become something painful to hold.

He reached out, but his hand passed right through the boy.

"Can you hear me?" Luke asked softly.

No response. The little boy just kept staring out the rain-streaked window.

"It's a memory," Luke murmured, sitting down on the bed. "I'm dreaming."

He knew this place well, the Baumanns' house, where his mother had worked since he was three. And he knew exactly why the boy was watching the window.

"You're waiting for Mom to come home," he whispered.

The details of that day were lost to time, but the feeling wasn't. Most of his childhood had been spent like this, waiting, refusing to leave his room. Judging by his height and face, he must've been around seven.

The same age my sister is now.

A sharp pain cut through his chest.

Is she like this too? Waiting for me every day, thinking I abandoned her?

The thought twisted inside him. The memory was turning into a nightmare he couldn't bear.

"Wake up," Luke muttered, lying back on the bed.

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He exhaled slowly. Then, the door creaked open. When he saw the figure step inside, the air left his lungs. His heart lurched violently. For a moment, he wanted to run, but his legs refused to move.

"Clara…" he whispered, rising to his feet, heart pounding too fast to control.

It was her, his adoptive mother. Her face was exactly as he remembered, kind and calm, framed by dark brown hair that caught the light when she moved. Luke's breath caught. He didn't want to face her. Shame burned in his chest, shame for running away, for hurting her. Yet beneath it all was an ache so deep it made his throat tighten. He had missed her more than he'd ever let himself admit.

She closed the door softly, careful not to make a sound, and walked toward the younger Luke sitting by the window. With that same gentle touch he remembered, she placed her hand on the boy's back and began to stroke it slowly.

"Hey, sweetie… you've been up here all morning, staring outside. Why don't you come down and eat something?" she asked, crouching to meet his eyes.

The little Luke didn't move. His chin rested on the arm of the chair, gaze fixed on the rain streaming down the glass. Clara stayed there, quiet, her patience saying more than any words could. The sound of the rain filled the silence between them.

"Say something," murmured the older Luke, watching from the corner of the room.

The boy didn't respond.

"How about this," she said softly, "if you come down with me now, I'll make you some hot chocolate. How does that sound?"

Still nothing.

"At least look at her," the older Luke urged.

He tried to touch the boy, but his hand passed straight through him.

"Tell you what," Clara continued gently, brushing her fingers through the boy's hair, "come down now, and I'll even give you those cookies you love so much."

"I don't want any," the little Luke said at last.

"But you have to eat something, son. You can't go on like this." she replied quietly.

The boy shoved her hand away.

"I'm not your son! You're not my mother!"

The words came out broken, trembling, and the older Luke felt them like a knife twisting through time, cutting both versions of himself at once. He remembered exactly how it had sounded when he screamed those words, and how much it hurt to hear them.

"Leave me alone! You'll never be my mom!"

The little Luke turned back toward the window.

A single tear slipped down Clara's cheek. She leaned forward and kissed the top of his head, but he didn't move, didn't even blink. Then she stood and turned toward the door.

"You idiot," the older Luke muttered, his voice cracking under the weight of the memory. "Why were you like that? She gave you everything, and you threw it back at her." His throat burned as he spoke, the words trembling like an old wound reopening.

Clara paused. For a moment, it looked as if she was staring straight at him, the grown version, not the child. Then she opened the door slowly.

"I'll be waiting downstairs," she said softly. "I may not be your real mother, but this is your home. We're your family."

She stepped out into the hallway.

"I love you, son." Her voice was steady, warm, final. The door closed with a gentle click.

Luke lunged for it, tried to pull it open, but it wouldn't budge. He pushed harder, used his strength, even his abilities, but nothing worked.

He pressed his forehead against the wood, trembling.

"I love you too… Mom."

The dream began to unravel, its colors bleeding together like ink in water. The floor, the walls, the sound of rain, everything slowly melted away, as if time itself was pulling him back, though he clung to every fading detail of her voice. Still, he stayed there, leaning against that door, wishing for just one more glimpse of her, one more chance to say the words he'd never managed to before.

"You're my mother too…" he whispered as the door dissolved before his eyes. "I just… took too long to accept it. I'm sorry."

It took him years to finally call Clara Mom, and now, when he finally could, she was too far away to hear it. He didn't want to forget his birth mother, but he would no longer deny Clara's love either. He would move forward carrying both of them in his heart, loving them both as his mothers.

Then the dream collapsed completely. The world shifted, and with a slow breath, he opened his eyes. He was awake.

Something changed. The scent of damp earth filled the air, the rain stopped, and warm sunlight touched his face. He opened his eyes again, slower this time, as sunlight seeped gently through his lashes. The scent of wet grass and earth filled his lungs, grounding him in the real world again. He was lying just outside the cave, the world impossibly calm after the storm of his dream.

For a moment, he wondered if he was still dreaming, until he felt something soft beneath his head. A leg.

He looked up and froze.

Allison's face hovered above him, her head tilted slightly to the side, eyes closed in sleep. She was sitting against the tree, his head resting on her lap, her blonde hair falling in loose strands close to his face.

He pushed himself up carefully, trying not to wake her, still processing what he was seeing.

How… did this happen?

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