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Aiko
Aiko awoke with a sharp inhale—but the moment her eyes fluttered open, she knew something was off.
The beeping. The wires. The clammy sheets. The sterile smell of blood and disinfectant.
Gone.
Instead, there was sunlight. Soft and golden, spilling across a wooden floor with scuff marks she could somehow still remember. A breeze through the window stirred pale curtains, making them dance like ghosts. She was lying on a bed—her bed, but... not quite. The duvet was faded with tiny daisies on it, the kind her mom had picked out when she was seven. A tiny plastic unicorn peeked out from under her pillow. On the small desk near the wall sat open crayon boxes, torn paper scattered across its surface—stick figures drawn in purple and pink, stars scribbled in orange.
Her chest rose, then fell slowly. She blinked a few times.
What is this...?
She sat up. Her limbs didn't ache. Her head didn't pound. No tubes. No monitors. Just the soft creak of the wooden floor as she stood.
She took in the room again. Messy. Familiar. A little chaotic, but in the way that made it feel alive. Her heart panged in her chest—it was her old bedroom in London, but it looked exactly the way it had when she was a kid. Before everything.
Before she had to leave.
Before the quiet grew louder.
Before her mom died.
A sound—a soft clatter of utensils—pulled her attention toward the door. She moved, slowly, cautiously, like she might break the illusion if she moved too fast. Her feet padded down the narrow hallway, her hand grazing the wall as if to prove it was real.
Then she stepped into the kitchen.
Her breath caught in her throat.
There she was—her mother—sitting at the little table by the window. Sunlight hit her face just right, catching the smile that curved her lips as she took a bite of rice. Her hair was tied back in a loose braid, her sleeves rolled up. She looked alive. She looked happy.
Across from her sat a little girl.
Dark hair tied into two uneven pigtails. Sticky rice on her chin. A squeaky giggle when her mom tapped her nose with a chopstick. That laugh—her laugh—bubbled up, carefree and light.
Aiko's mouth opened slightly.
That was her. A younger version, maybe six or seven. She didn't remember exactly, but it didn't matter. She was looking at a memory—or maybe a dream—but it felt real.
