The Wrong Name
The first thing she noticed was the light.
Soft. Golden.
Pouring in through lace curtains she didn't recognize.
Then the smell.
Like lavender and something warm, like fresh-baked bread.
And then—
The voices.
"Olivia, sweetheart, time to wake up."
Her eyes snapped open.
That wasn't her name.
She sat up fast.
Too fast.
Her head spun.
The bed was huge.
The walls were pale blue, covered in framed photos.
Smiling faces.
Smiling her.
But she didn't know these people.
Didn't know this room.
Didn't know this house.
Her throat tightened.
She had gone to bed in her own room.
Her own apartment.
This wasn't—
"Olivia?"
A woman stood in the doorway.
Middle-aged.
Soft brown eyes.
An apron tied around her waist, dusted with flour.
She was smiling.
Expectant.
Loving.
Like she had raised her.
Like she had always been her mother.
But she wasn't.
And the girl—
She wasn't Olivia.
The woman stepped closer.
Her heart pounded.
"Breakfast is ready, sweetheart."
"I—" The girl's voice cracked.
She swallowed.
Tried again.
"My name isn't Olivia."
Silence.
The woman blinked.
Then she laughed.
Soft. Affectionate.
Like she was humoring a child.
"Oh, you're still half-asleep, aren't you?"
The girl shook her head.
"I'm serious. That's not my name."
The woman's face changed.
The warmth in her eyes—
Flickered.
Just for a second.
Then she smiled again.
A little too wide.
A little too forced.
"Come eat, sweetie," she said.
Not a request.
A command.
And the girl's head—
Throbbed.
She didn't remember following the woman downstairs.
But suddenly, she was sitting at the table.
Her hands were shaking.
There was food in front of her.
Pancakes.
Syrup.
A glass of orange juice.
A man sat across from her.
Smiling.
"Morning, kiddo."
Her father.
Except he wasn't.
But he looked at her like he loved her.
Like he had raised her.
Like he knew her.
The girl stared down at her plate.
Her name.
She had to remember her name.
Her real one.
But the harder she thought—
The worse her head ached.
The man—her father—took a sip of coffee.
"Something wrong, Olivia?"
The girl flinched.
"That's not my name."
Silence.
Her parents exchanged a glance.
The kind that said something is wrong.
The kind that said fix it.
The woman reached across the table.
Squeezed her hand.
Her grip was too tight.
"Of course it is, sweetheart," she said.
And her voice—
It was different now.
Not soft.
Not kind.
It was something else.
Something cold.
And in that moment—
She knew.
This was a trap.
This wasn't her house.
These weren't her parents.
And if she didn't get out now—
She might forget who she really was.
She bolted from the table.
Ran for the door.
She didn't hear footsteps behind her.
They didn't try to stop her.
They only watched.
Smiling.
Still.
Waiting.
Her hands fumbled at the locks.
She yanked the door open—
And froze.
Outside was a perfect little neighborhood.
Identical houses.
White picket fences.
A blue sky with a perfect golden sun.
But there was no wind.
No birds.
No sound.
And all along the street—
People stood on their porches.
Watching.
Smiling.
Their eyes were empty.
Waiting.
Like they had always been waiting.
And suddenly—
She couldn't remember why she had been running.
Or where she was supposed to go.
Or what her name had been before today.
Because she was Olivia.
And she always had been.