The darkness around me shifted and suddenly I was standing in a memory.
Andrea's kitchen. But not the real one. This version was warped, the colors too saturated, the dimensions wrong. Everything felt off in a way I couldn't quite identify.
I saw Andrea standing at the stove cooking dinner. A memory from years ago. I recognized it because I'd been there that night, sitting at the table doing homework while she made pasta.
But the memory was twisted now. Andrea’s face was tired, drained. She moved slowly, as if even the smallest motion required effort. When she looked toward where I should have been sitting, the resentment in her expression was unmistakable.
"Another night cooking for a kid who isn't even mine," memory-Andrea muttered. "Another night sacrificing what I wanted because I
