My room isn't like this.
I remember my room had a row of stuffed animals—a faded old rabbit, a new little bear with fluffy fur—all crowded together on the nightstand.
I also remember a faint indentation on the bedsheets, almost smoothed out, with just the slightest curve of an impression left.
I remember a faint, sweet scent hanging in the air.
'But is this bedroom mine?'
'Or is it my parents' bedroom?'
'Do I even have parents?'
The moment that question popped into my head, I froze.
'Of course I do.'
'Who doesn't have parents?'
'Where would someone without parents come from?'
'Born from a stone?'
The very idea was absurd.
I must have been groggy from sleep to be asking myself such a question.
'Forget it.'
'Don't overthink it.'
I turned and continued walking toward the living room.
The floorboard beneath my feet let out a soft CREAK. The sound was so familiar that I knew it was the third floorboard without even looking down.
