Forever, Again

Present: Sep 24, 2023

Aliya lay in her bed, the moonlight casting a soft glow through the sheer curtains. She turned to her right, seeking the familiar presence of Dylan. Her hand reached out, fingers brushing against the cool, empty sheets where he should have been. Her heart ached with longing as she hugged the pillow, trying to capture his scent, the comforting mix of cedarwood and fresh rain that always made her feel safe.

The warmth she expected was missing. Aliya frowned, eyes still closed, willing herself to feel his presence. Slowly, she opened her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest. There he was, lying beside her, his face relaxed in peaceful slumber. Relief washed over her, and she allowed herself a small smile.

But something was wrong. Dylan's face began to fade, the edges blurring as if he were dissolving into the air. Panic surged through Aliya. She reached out, trying to hold on to him, but her hands passed through nothingness. She screamed his name, a desperate, heart-wrenching cry that echoed in the empty room. "Dylan!"

Her voice shattered the stillness of the night. Suddenly, she heard a thumping sound, distant at first, but growing louder with each passing second. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound intensified, morphing into a frantic, loud knocking that seemed to come from all around her.

Aliya's eyes flew open, and she sat up in bed, breathing heavily, her heart racing. She took a few moments to realize she had been dreaming. The room was still dimly lit by the early morning sun filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. The knocking at her bedroom door continued, steady and persistent.

Pushing the covers aside, Aliya swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and walked over to the door. She opened it to find a woman standing there.

The woman looked to be about her age, with blonde hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She had a fuller figure and wore a crisp white apron over her clothes. Her face was round, with kind blue eyes that sparkled with a hint of nervousness.

"Who are you?" Aliya asked, still groggy from sleep.

"I'm Martha, Miss Day," the woman replied with a warm smile. "I'm your cook. Your breakfast is ready."

Aliya blinked, trying to process this new information. She hadn't expected to have a cook, let alone one who seemed so cheerful so early in the morning. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table; it was just past eight.

Walking into the kitchen, Aliya noticed how everything was impeccably organized. The countertops were spotless, and the stainless-steel appliances gleamed. Martha was already busy at the counter, her hands moving deftly as she prepared something in a food processor.

Aliya sat at the breakfast bar, her eyes locked onto a bowl of greenish puree. The sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the luxurious New York apartment, casting a soft glow on the marble countertops. She frowned, the color of the puree eliciting a vague, unpleasant feeling.

Her fingers traced the rim of the porcelain bowl, the smoothness grounding her in the present. She glanced up, her expression a mixture of confusion and skepticism. "Are you sure I like this stuff?" she asked, her voice edged with uncertainty.

Martha stood on the other side of the kitchen island, her face open and sincere. Her light greyish eyes reflecting genuine concern. "I don't know, Miss Day. You usually have this with your vitamin pills and an egg."

Aliya sighed and pushed the bowl away slightly, the metal spoon clinking against the bowl. "You can call me Aliya," she said, her tone softer now, almost pleading.

Martha looked momentarily perplexed, her brows furrowing slightly. "But, Miss Day... you asked me to call you that."

Aliya's brows knitted together as she struggled to assemble the scattered pieces of her memory. Everything felt disjointed, like she was inhabiting someone else's life, staring out through a stranger's eyes. Her fingers tapped rhythmically on the countertop, a subconscious attempt to draw out some clarity.