He prayed to relive his happiest days—but when yesterday answered, it didn’t come alone.
Story Prompt
Tommy Harlan woke to the smell of pancakes—and the sound of someone humming his dead mother’s favorite song.
The light streaming through his window was syrup-thick and golden, but the air felt wrong—too still, too heavy, as if the house itself were holding its breath. He blinked. His boyhood room. The chipped dresser. The toy firetruck with the missing wheel. He stumbled to the mirror—and froze. A ten-year-old’s reflection stared back.
Downstairs, the humming stopped. “Tommy,” a voice called, soft, drawn-out, familiar—and wet, like it came from deep underground. He crept to the landing. His mother stood by the stove, her hair dripping black water onto the linoleum, eyes wide with something that wasn’t love. The calendar read June 14, 1973.
“Breakfast is ready,” she said, smiling too wide. “You were gone so long.”
Question for Readers:
If you woke up in your childhood home—and your dead parent greeted you like nothing ever happened—what would you do next?
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