Emma woke to the scent of cedar and the soft hum of a ceiling fan she didn't recognize. The room was bathed in pale dawn light, the green walls and botanical prints jarring her senses. Her heart lurched—Lily's bruises, Ethan's letter, the police station—all of it felt so close, yet impossibly distant. She turned, finding David beside her, his steady breathing a constant in this shifting world. But the bed, the curtains, the very air felt alien. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to anchor herself, but Noah's words echoed: "You're not my mom."
She slipped out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet, and followed the faint sound of pages turning. The hallway led to Noah's room, where she found him cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by his astronomy books, his glasses slipping down his nose as he scribbled in his notebook. He was so small, so focused, his world of stars a fortress against the outside. Emma's chest tightened—Ethan's defiance and Lily's anger were raw wounds, but Noah's quiet intensity tugged at her in a different way, like a memory she couldn't place.
"Noah?" she said softly, kneeling at the edge of his book-strewn circle. He didn't look up, his pencil moving in precise, deliberate strokes. "Can I… can I sit with you?"
He paused, his gray eyes flicking to her, wary but not hostile. "If you want," he said, his voice barely audible. He returned to his notebook, sketching what looked like a constellation, but the lines formed a looping symbol she'd seen before—on Lily's note, maybe, or Ethan's jacket. Her breath caught, but she pushed the thought aside, focusing on Noah.
"I thought I'd make breakfast," she said, grasping for something normal. "What's your favorite?"
Noah's pencil stopped. He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "You don't know?" There was no accusation in his tone, just a quiet curiosity that stung worse than anger.
Emma's throat tightened. "I… I want to get it right," she said, her voice trembling. "Tell me what you like, Noah."
He studied her for a moment, then shrugged. "Pancakes. With blueberries." He turned back to his notebook, shutting her out again.
Emma nodded, standing, her hands shaking as she left the room. In the kitchen, she moved on autopilot, pulling ingredients from cabinets that felt both familiar and foreign. The act of mixing batter, the sizzle of pancakes on the griddle, grounded her, but her mind churned. Ethan's girlfriend, Sophie, was sick. Lily was fighting at school, bruised and scared. And Noah—why did his words, his stars, feel like a key to something she couldn't grasp?
When the pancakes were ready, she called Noah, but he didn't come. She carried a plate to his room, finding him still on the floor, now reading a book about black holes. "Noah, breakfast," she said, setting the plate on his desk. The blueberries gleamed like tiny stars against the golden pancakes, but he didn't move.
"I'm not hungry," he said, not looking up.
Emma's heart sank. "I made them for you," she said, her voice soft. "Please, just try."
He glanced at the plate, then at her, his eyes narrowing. "You always do this," he said, his voice low, almost accusatory. "You act like you care, then you leave."
The words cut deeper than Lily's anger or Ethan's blame. Emma knelt beside him, desperate to bridge the gap. "Noah, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
But he turned away, his attention back to his book. Emma's gaze fell to his notebook, left open on the floor. The page was filled with sketches—not just stars, but that same looping symbol, repeated over and over, like a signature. Her fingers itched to touch it, but footsteps interrupted her thoughts.
David appeared in the doorway, his face etched with concern. "Emma, you're hovering," he said gently, but there was an edge to his voice. "Give him space."
She stood, her cheeks flushing. "David, I need to talk to you," she said, her voice low, urgent. "Something's wrong. Noah, Lily, Ethan—I don't understand what's happening to me."
David's expression softened, but his eyes held that familiar flicker of worry. "Emma, there's no Lily or Ethan. It's just Noah. You're… not yourself lately." He reached for her hand, but she pulled back, her pulse racing.
"No, you don't get it," she said, her voice rising. "I was with Ethan at the police station. I found Lily in that awful place. They're real, David. I can feel them." Her hands trembled, and she gestured toward Noah, who was watching them now, his book forgotten.
David sighed, glancing at Noah, then back at her. "Emma, you're scaring him. Let's talk in the kitchen." He turned to Noah, his voice firm. "Buddy, we'll be right back."
Noah didn't respond, his eyes fixed on Emma, unreadable. She followed David, her mind spinning. In the kitchen, she faced him, her voice barely above a whisper. "David, why does it feel like I'm losing them? All of them?"
He looked at her, his face a mix of love and frustration. "Emma, you're not losing anyone. You're just… lost. You need to focus on Noah, on us." He paused, his voice softening. "You've been talking about these other kids for weeks. It's not healthy."
"Weeks?" Emma's voice cracked. The word felt impossible, like a betrayal of time itself. She wanted to argue, to demand answers, but the weight of his words pressed down on her. Had she been imagining Ethan and Lily? Or was this reality the lie?
As David turned to pour coffee, Emma's gaze fell to a stack of mail on the counter. Tucked among the bills was a small, worn notebook page, torn and folded. She opened it, her hands trembling. It was Noah's handwriting, the same looping symbol, but beneath it, a single line: "They're waiting for you in Paris."
Her breath stopped. She looked up, but David was busy with the coffee, oblivious. Noah's words from earlier echoed, merging with the note in her hand. Paris. Ethan. Lily. Noah. They were connected, and somehow, she had to find them—before it was too late.