Before I was born, my parents had lived in a different pack. Though I barely remembered, flashes of jagged mountains in the distance and the sticky, humid air would sometimes come to me. We hadn’t stayed there long—not nearly long enough for me to form lasting memories.
Standing in the house now, it felt oddly familiar yet foreign. The place was modest but immaculately kept. A large navy sofa hugged the far wall, cluttered with old dolls and scattered coloring books. Broken crayons dotted the floor, and to the left was a small kitchen, while a narrow staircase wound up on the right.
Sudden, joyful giggling drew me toward the front door. I opened it, stepping onto a small concrete patio. There, in front of the house, was a younger version of myself. I couldn’t be sure of my exact age, bu
