The Wrong Name
The first thing she noticed was the smell.
Like old wood and something faintly sweet, like vanilla.
The second thing she noticed—
She didn't recognize the room.
The bed was too big.
The wallpaper was faded blue.
A dresser stood against the wall, lined with trinkets she didn't remember owning.
And on the nightstand—
A framed photo.
Of her.
Smiling with people she didn't know.
Her heart pounded.
She pushed off the covers and stepped onto the hardwood floor.
Too cold.
Too real.
She wasn't dreaming.
Footsteps creaked outside the door.
Then a voice.
Soft. Familiar.
"Sweetie? You awake?"
She didn't move.
The door opened.
A woman peeked in.
Middle-aged.
Kind eyes.
Blonde hair tied in a bun.
Her face stretched into a warm smile.
"There you are, Emily."
The girl's stomach dropped.
"That's… not my name."
The woman chuckled.
"Oh, sweetheart, don't be silly."
She stepped inside, smoothing down the covers like it was normal.
Like she did it every morning.
"Breakfast is ready. Your dad's already at the table."
The girl's mouth was dry.
She wanted to correct her again, to insist—
But something about the woman's voice made her hesitate.
She believed it.
Like she knew it to be true.
Like Emily was her name, and always had been.
She followed the woman downstairs.
The kitchen smelled like syrup and eggs.
A man sat at the table, drinking coffee.
He looked up and smiled.
"Morning, kiddo."
She had never seen this man before in her life.
But there was love in his eyes.
Like he had raised her.
Like he had always been her father.
"Take a seat," he said, ruffling her hair.
It took everything in her not to flinch.
She sat down, hands trembling in her lap.
The woman—her mother—set down a plate of pancakes.
"I was thinking we could go to the lake today," she said. "Just like last summer."
She couldn't breathe.
She didn't remember last summer.
She didn't remember any summers with these people.
The man sipped his coffee.
"Something wrong, sweetheart?"
She forced herself to speak.
"I—"
They were staring at her now.
Patient.
Expectant.
Waiting for her to be Emily.
The girl swallowed hard.
"I… don't remember last summer."
The woman's smile faltered.
For a fraction of a second.
The man set his coffee down.
"Of course, you do," he said.
And his voice was different now.
Like it wasn't a suggestion—
It was a command.
Her head ached.
A sharp, twisting pain.
Like something pressing into her skull.
Like hands trying to shape her into something else.
She shut her eyes.
Tried to think—
Who was she?
What was her real name?
But when she opened them again—
The pain was gone.
And she was smiling.
The girl picked up her fork.
Took a bite of pancake.
Her mother beamed.
Her father ruffled her hair again.
"That's my girl."
Her hands stopped shaking.
Everything felt… okay.
Normal.
She belonged here.
She was happy.
She was Emily.
And she always had been.
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Something tickled the back of her mind.
A whisper of something before this.
A different name.
A different life.
She tried to grasp it—
But her eyes grew heavy.
Her thoughts blurred.
Sleep took her.
And by morning, the whispers were gone.
Because she was Emily.
And she always had been.