She didn’t understand why it happened, only that it never stopped. The doctors called it a “break from shared reality”. They gave it a name — one she stopped repeating after the third appointment because names made it feel real in a way she couldn’t survive.
It began with drawings that didn’t match memory. A chair she sketched appeared in her room the next morning, except it was slightly wrong. The legs were too long. The shadow pointed the wrong way.
“Okay, time to go,” I murmur to myself, exiting the classroom. Rain pounds against the windows, and thunder taunts me from outside. I already know it’s hopeless, but I pull out my phone to check for a signal anyway.
Except – my phone isn’t there.
“What?” I curse. “I swear I kept it in here.”
The countryside was a vivid place. Old-fashioned folk resided in the bustling sectors of the city, amidst which was the cottage of Agatha, a well-known woman among the common citizenry. She wore a tight bun around her head as she intertwined her wrinkled hands around the complex piece of wool. The firelight shimmered on her face, presenting shining white hair that held underneath a variety of loops and curls. Her granddaughter Diana lay in a deep sleep in her lap. Agatha caressed her beautiful young face, remembering a time of her own. As she finished her knit, a bright vermillion cardigan perfect for the subfusc winters, she lay down in a curved position next to her granddaughter.
