The chorus of early morning birdsong drifted through the window, stirring me from sleep. I cracked one eye open and glanced at the glowing numbers on my smartwatch. Six o'clock.
For a while, I simply lay there, half-awake, listening to the birds. My body felt heavy, content. Eventually, I slipped back into slumber.
When I woke again, an hour had passed. At first, nothing seemed unusual—until I noticed the watch on my wrist. Sleek. Polished. Fancier than the one I remembered wearing last night. I frowned, blinking the sleep from my eyes, then sat up to look around.
This wasn't my room.
Or at least… it didn't feel like it.
The bed beneath me was softer, thicker, almost inviting me to sink back down and surrender to sleep. But curiosity tugged harder. I swung my legs off the mattress and stood. My eyes fell on the desk across the room.
Not my old desk. An electric standing desk.
I approached, scanning the setup. A high-end headphone jack. Studio-grade headphones. A keyboard that had to cost more than most people's rent. And the screen—a massive, wide-display monitor. Beneath it sat a tower of a computer, its polished casing gleaming like machinery out of some futuristic showroom.
I pressed the power button. The machine roared to life, booting in barely ten seconds. When the display lit up, my heart skipped.
A photograph. Of me. And Briannah. And Joel, my old support worker.
I leaned closer. The man on the screen was undeniably me, though fitter, sharper. A leaner stomach, definition in the arms. My gaze darted down to my own body—flat, toned, muscular.
Impossible.
And Briannah? She hadn't spoken to me in years.
The lock screen pulsed, awaiting input. I typed in the familiar pattern of keys, but instead of the usual login, a holographic handprint shimmered across the desk surface.
Cautious, I placed my palm over it. The system accepted me instantly, the monitor opening into a desktop that was undeniably mine.
The background image froze me in place.
It was me again—shirtless, hanging upside down from a pull-up bar, knees hooked over the steel, a grin splitting my face. I had no memory of the photo ever being taken.
I scanned the screen. A folder caught my eye: Lobley Magazine.
Excitement surged through me. That had been one of my oldest dreams—to run a magazine of my own. I double-clicked.
Twenty subfolders. Each one labeled like a published issue. At the bottom sat a single document: Annual Review.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
The first line leapt off the page:
Lobley Magazine Annual Review: Year in Reflection — 20 Issues, $206 Million Strong.
My jaw dropped.
"Holy shit," I whispered.
knock rattled my door.
"Good morning, Curt," came Mum's voice. "What's going on? I heard you gasp."
I froze. For a moment, I considered telling her everything. About the room, the watch, the computer, the impossible numbers glowing on the screen. But some instinct told me not to. As if speaking it aloud might shatter whatever strange, exhilarating reality I'd stumbled into.
So instead, I said lightly, "I'm just reading through this annual review. I guess it's only just hitting me how well the magazine's done."
Her voice warmed. "I know! We're all so proud of you. Breakfast is ready, by the way. I was coming to get you when I heard you."
Relief washed over me. I smiled. "Perfect. I'll be right there."
As she walked away, I turned back to the screen. My chest buzzed with anticipation.
If the morning had already delivered this much surprise, what else was waiting for me beyond that bedroom door?
I shut down the computer and followed Mum out toward the dining area. Almost immediately, I began noticing more differences.
This wasn't the same house I'd fallen asleep in.
The hallway opened into a wide kitchen and dining room, sunlight spilling across polished counters. But what truly stopped me cold was the man seated at the table.
Jason.
My breath caught. Jason had passed away back in 2013 after a long illness. I remembered it clearly—he'd been with a woman named Liana and had five kids with her. And after that, Mum had been with a man named Marcus for six years. Yet here Jason was, alive, healthy, and sitting at our family's table.
He looked nothing like the weak, sick man from my memories. He was lean now, fit even, his eyes bright and clear. I said nothing. If I started blurting out what I knew, they'd think I'd gone mad.
As I slipped into a chair, my gaze fell to their hands. Both Mum and Jason wore matching rings.
They're married, I realized with a burst of quiet joy.
I turned to glance out the wide windows. The ocean spread out before me, glittering under the morning sun. A beachside house. Ours.
Mum and Jason spoke easily across the table, their conversation brushing over something surreal. They mentioned a government-approved force field I had apparently purchased—one capable of shielding the property from tsunamis or even war. They praised my foresight, saying how much I always thought about the family's safety.
I sat silently, my heart racing.
Even breakfast was different. No boring slices of toast today. Mum moved with practiced grace, flipping thick, golden pancakes onto a platter. The air filled with their sweet, buttery aroma. My sister Abi, who normally had to eat gluten-free, dug in without worry. Another impossibility.
Mum carried the plate to the table while Jason collected the spreads. On the tiled bench, she set down a row of cups. Dom's filled with water. I poured myself apple juice. Jason chose coffee. Abi grinned as pink milk streamed into her glass, and Mum filled hers with tea.
The dispenser itself startled me—it was built right into the kitchen counter, producing hot drinks steaming fresh on one side, cold drinks crisp and chilled on the other. Coffee, tea, water, milk, juice—on demand.
We sat together, a family, the sea breeze drifting in through the open windows as we enjoyed breakfast. Every bite of pancake tasted richer, better, more vivid than I remembered.
Something had changed. Something impossible was unfolding.
And I was right in the middle of it.