The scream tore from her throat before she even knew she was making a sound.
Her body twisted violently, hands clawing at the unfamiliar arm wrapped around her. She scrambled backward so fast she nearly toppled off the bed.
The man beside her jerked upright, startled. His hair was dark and tousled, his skin warm with sleep, and his eyes — a deep, startling blue — fixed on her with concern rather than alarm.
"Elena?" His voice was gentle, almost too gentle, like someone speaking to a frightened animal. "What happened?"
She pressed herself against the headboard, chest heaving. "Who the hell are you? How—how did you get in here?"
The man's brow furrowed. "What? Elena, it's me. Marcus."
He reached toward her, but she flinched so sharply he stopped, his hand hovering in the air. "Your husband," he added, like it should explain everything.
Her head shook on instinct. "No. No, that's—no. I live alone. I don't even know you."
Before Marcus could respond, there was a soft, hesitant knock on the bedroom door. It cracked open just enough for a small face to peek in.
"Mommy?"
Elena's stomach turned to ice.
A little boy stepped inside, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and his dinosaur-print pajamas were slightly too big for him. He was followed closely by a tiny girl in a pale-pink nightgown, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit so tightly its ears drooped unevenly.
The girl's voice was timid. "Why are you shouting?"
Elena looked from the children to Marcus and back again. Her mind was a static-filled blur. She didn't have children. She had never been pregnant. Yet the way the boy's gaze softened when it landed on her… it wasn't the look of a stranger.
"I…" She tried to form a sentence, but the words wouldn't come. "I think you've got the wrong—"
The boy padded across the room before she could finish, climbing onto the bed with the casual familiarity of someone who had done it a thousand times. He curled against her side, warm and small, his head resting on her arm.
"Bad dream?" he mumbled, already settling in like she was his safe place.
Elena froze. She could feel his heartbeat, hear his steady breathing. This was no dream — it was too tactile, too real. Her heart pounded harder.
Marcus shifted closer, careful, as if not to spook her. He laid a reassuring hand on her forearm. "You're shaking," he murmured. "Let me get you some water."
She yanked her arm back. "This isn't my life," she whispered, barely audible.
His expression softened into something pained. "You said that once before. The night after Emma was born. You were exhausted, confused. The nurse had to remind you where you were." He gave a faint, almost nostalgic smile. "You scared me then, too."
Emma. The name clung to her thoughts like a burr.
The little girl — Emma, apparently — climbed onto the bed now, curling up at the foot with her rabbit. Her tiny feet pressed lightly against Elena's leg, grounding her in a reality she refused to accept.
Elena's breaths came quick and shallow. She wanted to scream again, to rip off the sheets, to demand an explanation that made sense. But Marcus's presence, the boy's weight against her, the little girl's soft sigh as she drifted toward sleep — they were so tangible, so vividly here that she didn't know where to place her panic.
Somewhere beyond the bedroom, the faint hum of an appliance filled the silence — the low, steady whir of a refrigerator....