The newspaper still lay open on the kitchen table, the headline staring up at him like a quiet accusation.
"More Vanishings Reported in East Borough—Police Have No Leads"
Alex read it again and again, but the words refused to settle in his mind. The letters swam, blurring around the grainy photograph of a cordoned-off alleyway. A part of him—an old part—felt like it recognised the place. A different alley, maybe. A different world. The same silence.
He closed the paper gently and glanced at the clock on the wall. Half eight. Breakfast had long since gone cold on his plate. Sophie had finished eating and was now drawing with crayons at the lounge table, chattering to herself about dragons and cloud-castles. Their mum hummed from the hallway, folding laundry with the efficiency of someone who'd done it a thousand times.
The air was warm, but Alex felt cold.
"Something wrong?" came a voice behind him.
He turned to see his dad entering the kitchen. The man was dressed in work trousers and a faded shirt, his boots still damp from the early-morning dew. A smudge of engine grease marked his forearm.
"No," Alex said quickly. "Just reading."
His dad gave a non-committal grunt and poured himself a cup of tea from the pot. He sat down across from Alex with a soft groan, like the chair might not survive his weight.
"Bloody knees," he muttered.
Alex studied him. There was a strange comfort in the man's presence—solid, familiar in a way that tugged at something deep in Alex's chest. He looked like the kind of man James Hargrove might have taught in school years ago: practical, kind, hands built for tools, not books.
"Disappeared folk again?" his dad asked, tapping the newspaper.
Alex hesitated. "Yeah."
"Same nonsense every week. Poor sods vanish, police scratch their heads, nothing changes." He sipped his tea. "You'd think something big was stirring, the way people talk."
Alex nodded slowly, then folded the paper and pushed it aside. "Do you think it's true?"
The question hung in the air.
His father glanced at him, eyebrows raised. "Which part?"
"That people are going missing. Without a trace."
A long pause.
"I think…" the man said slowly, "...there's always truth buried under what scares people. Might not be the full story. Might not even be the right one. But people don't get this worried over nothing."
Alex didn't respond. His mind was already wandering again—to shadows that whispered names, to streets that looked familiar and wrong all at once.
His father drained the rest of his tea and stood. "Come on, lad. You're not going to spend the whole day staring at headlines. Let's do something useful."
They ended up in the back garden, pulling weeds and trimming the hedges while the clouds threatened rain that never came. Sophie skipped in and out, chasing a butterfly with her paper wings, while their mother hung laundry in rhythmic flicks of her wrist.
Alex moved through it all quietly. His hands did the work, but his mind kept drifting—to fragments of memories not his own. Standing in front of a chalkboard. The smell of old books. A voice crying in the dark. A scream.
His dad straightened up and wiped his forehead with a sleeve. "You've got a good pair of hands on you," he said. "I've seen grown men less steady."
"Thanks," Alex murmured.
"You ever help your uncle in the garage before?" his dad asked, then frowned. "Wait, you don't have an uncle. Huh."
Alex laughed softly. "Maybe in a past life."
His dad gave him a curious look but let it go.
The afternoon settled into quiet comfort. Lunch was sandwiches and apple slices, eaten on the back step. Sophie told them a story about a talking tree and a magic fox that lived in her wardrobe. No one corrected her.
Later, Alex found himself back in his room, watching the light fade from the sky through the thin curtains. He had a notebook open on his desk, but the pages remained blank. Not because he didn't know what to write—but because he didn't know how to explain it to himself, let alone anyone else.
He was here.
Alive.
In someone else's childhood.
And yet… the memories of James still flickered behind his eyes like candlelight through fog. He remembered standing in that alley. The cold. The blade. The look on the girl's face. Then darkness.
Why here? he wondered. Why this life?
"Alex!" came his mum's voice from downstairs. "Supper!"
He slid the notebook shut and headed down. The table was already set. Stew and bread. Simple, hearty, and real. The kind of meal that said: You're home. You're safe.
As they ate, Sophie told a long, looping story about something she'd seen in the garden—a worm or a fairy, it wasn't entirely clear—and their parents laughed along. Alex tried to keep up, but his thoughts were adrift.
When the plates were cleared and the dishes done, they gathered in the lounge. Sophie curled up on her mum's lap with a blanket, and his father lit a small fire in the hearth. It was unnecessary in the mild weather, but tradition seemed to matter more than temperature.
Alex sat by the window, looking out over the quiet street.
After a moment, his dad joined him, sitting on the edge of the armchair with a slow breath.
"Bit quiet today, aren't you?"
"I guess," Alex said.
"You're still getting used to things," he said gently. "It's alright. No rush."
Alex looked at him, wondering if he somehow knew. Could they tell? Did they sense something off about him? But there was only patience in the man's face. Only love.
There was a short pause before his father added, "By the way—got a letter from school today."
Alex blinked. "Oh?"
"Term starts in a month. Year six, big year." He smiled. "You'll be back in with your mates before long."
Alex nodded slowly, though his stomach twisted at the thought.
Back to school. As a child. Again.
"Don't look so miserable," his dad said with a laugh. "It's not the end of the world."
Alex managed a grin. "No," he said. "It's just the start of a new one."
His father ruffled his hair, then stood and returned to the others. Alex watched the flames dance in the grate, and for the first time that day, he let himself feel the weight of the moment.
One month.
A new life.
And a world that didn't feel as safe as it looked.