Sarah's legs pounded against the pavement as she and Nicholas raced toward home, dodging people and potholes, her heart drumming louder than her footsteps. Nicholas's voice echoed in her ears, "Mummy's not waking up! She's on the floor!"
She didn't care who stared at her. The wind whipped past her face. Her vision blurred. Her chest ached. Not again. Not now. Please, God, not Mum, too.
They were just a street away—almost there—when it happened.
A deafening screech of tires. A flash of white. A van sped through the red light.
She turned just in time to push Nicholas out of the way. but couldn't save herself as she was sent flying then hitting the ground with a heavy thud and blood seeping through the whole tiled road.
Then, nothing.
No pain. Just silence.
---
When Sarah opened her eyes, everything felt wrong.
The room was dim with early morning light. Her thin mattress scratched against her arms. The ceiling was familiar, but something was off. Her body ached, but not in the way she expected. She sat up sharply, breathing hard. Wasn't I—? Her hand flew to her chest. dead?
She looked around. The room was as it had always been—narrow, cold, peeling paint, the smell of damp walls—but her siblings' voices filtered in from the kitchen, laughing and bickering as though it was just another ordinary morning. Hannah was humming a gospel song off-key. Nicholas was arguing about socks.
Her heart raced. What day is this? She reached for the small phone under her pillow and blinked at the date: September 10, 2022.
But that wasn't possible it was supposed to be 2023.
She shot out of bed and ran to the living room. Hannah was folding clothes. Nicholas had peanut butter on his cheek.
"Peter, mum... where's mum!" she called, nearly tripping over a pile of clothes.
Peter, already dressed in his worn black hoodie, turned to her. "What?"
She stared at him, panting. "You're not... shaken? About Mum?"
He raised a brow. "She's fine. Sleeping in her room. Why are you acting weird?"
Sarah swallowed hard. "You're going to work?"
"Yeah. Same as every Sunday. Don't start. You better get ready too—you're meant to be at The Copper Spoon by 12. Don't be late."
He left without waiting for her reply.
Sarah stood still, confused and dizzy. Her hands trembled.
Then—a knock at the door.
She froze.
No. No way.
She turned slowly.
Hannah skipped to the door and opened it with a cheery, "Good morning, Aunty!"
Sarah's breath caught in her throat.
Aunt Anita Johnson stood in the doorway, wearing the same green Ankara dress, heels clicking on the wooden floor, heavy perfume trailing behind her. But this time, the sun was barely up. Last time, it had been dark. Last time.
Aunt Anita smiled, flashing her gold tooth. "Is your mother inside?"
"Y-yes," Hannah said. "She's still resting, but I'll call her."
Sarah backed up slowly into the hallway. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would crack her ribs.
The same dress. The same lines. But now it's morning. And… I'm here. I'm alive.
She sat on the edge of the tattered couch, her fingers locked in a vice grip. Her eyes flicked to the wall clock.
11:04 a.m.
She had less than an hour before she needed to leave for work.
But now she wasn't even sure what was real.
In the next room, Aunt Anita's voice drifted through the thin walls. Low, persuasive, confident.
And for the first time, Sarah didn't feel powerless. She felt like something—someone—was giving her another chance.
To rewrite it all.