Elara Whitmore POV) I used to think my mother could fix anything. Broken plates, burnt pancakes, bad dreams, even my father’s quietness after work. When I was little, the world felt simple because she was in it. Our house sat at the end of a quiet street in Boston, tall and white with wide windows that caught morning sun like treasure. I remember waking up every day to the smell of cinnamon or coffee or something warm baking in the oven. My mother believed mornings should begin gently. “People fight less when they begin the day kindly,” she used to say. I believed every word she said. I was ten years old then, short for my age, skinny legs always running ahead of my thoughts. My hair is always messy no matter how carefully she brushes it. Long pale blonde strands of hair slipped freely the moment I moved, falling into my eyes. She would sigh dramatically behind me. “Elara Whitmore,” she’d say, rearranging my hair again, “one day you must learn to sit still.” “I am still mama,” I’d argue. “You are not.” And then she would laugh, soft and warm, the kind of laugh that made the whole house feel alive. My mother’s name was Helena Whitmore. Everyone said she was beautiful, but I never thought about beauty the way adults did. To me, she was safety. She smelled like lavender soap and fresh bread. Her hands were always warm. Even when winter snow covered the city, her touch never felt cold. She believed in order. Beds must be arranged. Shoes must be kept properly. Kind words must be spoken even when angry. “Discipline,” she told me one morning while tying my school ribbon, “is not punishment. It is respect for yourself and for others.” I didn’t fully understand then, but I nodded seriously anyway.

Amara woke up with a start.The sun streamed through the blinds, and everything smelled like her childhood bedroom—clean sheets, faint perfume of flowers from the windowsill. Her heart raced.It should have been impossible. She should have been… gone.But here she was. In her own body. Three years younger, untouched by the mistakes that had cost her so much.And the first thing she realized? She had a second chance.She laughed softly, bitter and thrilled. “Well… let’s see how differently this life can go.