The fourth wall lights up, and the place it displays looks instantly familiar. It's a part of the corridor leading to the kitchen. I recognize the tree-shaped clothes rack, but the clothes hanging from it don't ring a bell. I mean, it makes sense—after five years, their clothes would be completely different. The decorative bucket under the rack, on the other hand, is unmistakable. White, with yellow and red flowers, it's a present someone gave Mom years ago, for her to use in her little garden. She placed it here instead, and we've used it as umbrella stand ever since.

A few umbrellas stick out of it now, and I recognize my father's gray and blue one, with a wooden handle. Of course it's still here. He wouldn't have gotten a new umbrella as long as the the old one still worked. I was with him when he got it. It was his birthday, and Mom dragged us to the mall to pick him a present. 'This here looks sturdy', he'd said, examining the umbrella. 'Will serve long.' Five years later, it looks like he was right.

"Are you okay?" Aiden says softly, placing his hand on my shoulder.

I nod, unable to speak.

"It's the middle of the day," he says. "They're not home. Want to step in?"

I turn and stare at him, then point at the corridor in front of me. "There?"

"Yes. If you're up for it. You can't meet your family, so perhaps being there could be too painful for you."

"No, no." I shake my head. "I'll be fine. Can we do it?" Even though I'm overwhelmed by just the look of this small corner of my old life, the possibility to experience something that, to my understanding, can only be explained by magic, despite Aiden describing it as 'technology', is irresistible. I mean, if he's not lying, this here is a kind of teleportation portal, allowing him to just step into another place. Who wouldn't want to try something like this?

"All right." His hand on my shoulders tightens, and he gently pulls me forward. "You better close your eyes. Otherwise, the transition could be... jarring."

I shut my eyes obediently and let him lead me. All of my senses on high alert, I await a shock of some kind, but nothing happens. We take a few steps and then stop. I feel no different, although I do think the smell changed a little. I don't smell anything in particular, it's just—different. Also, the air against my face feels slightly warmer than the chill, air-conditioned atmosphere of Aiden's room.

"You can look," he says, and I open my eyes.

I'm standing in the little corridor, the clothes rack to my right. More of the kitchen is now visible, a part of the counter, the fridge, the sink with a few plates piled up in it. I guess Mom never quite succeeded in training the rest of the family to put their dirty dishes in the washer. She's been trying for as long as I can remember.

The house is quiet, with only the ticking of the big clock in the living room breaking the silence. I can hear the distant sounds of traffic, but the house is located on a backstreet, so it's never noisy.

I slide out from under Aiden's hand and walk forward, into the kitchen.

There's a new tablecloth, and an old flower vase. There are more photo magnets on the fridge, but I still recognize some of the old ones, including a few with me, family shots from weddings and other events that I attended as a child. It gives me mixed feelings, the fact that they didn't remove my photos. If they think that I killed myself, that I didn't care about them enough to even try to talk to them first, then seeing my face every day could have been painful. On the other hand, it's a younger me in these pictures, at the age when my biggest care in the world was getting a new PlayStation for my birthday, so maybe they wanted to remember me like that.

I step closer to look at the new photos. On one of them, Mom and my sister are wearing evening dresses, and my father has his best suit on. Liz is taller than Mom, and almost as tall as Dad now, and she's only fifteen. They're smiling at the camera. I guess they've moved on. They're a family of three now. I no longer belong here.

The pictures suddenly move in front of me as Aiden opens the fridge. I step aside and look inside with him. There are the usual Tupperware boxes, and a long casserole with a half-eaten lasagna. Mom could always nail the lasagna like no one else.

"Hungry?" I ask Aiden, and before he can answer, I pull the casserole out.

"They might notice," he says, but in a way like he wants to be convinced otherwise.

"They won't notice a couple pieces missing," I say, placing it on the table. "Nor a couple more dirty plates, not with this mess." I nod at the full sink, then walk over and open the cupboard with the dishes. I retrieve two plates—the ones with blue flowers that I remember since childhood. Mom used to serve me mashed potatoes on them, decorated with tomato slices arranged to make a smiley face. Holy crap, every little detail in this house triggers an avalanche of memories.

"Here you go." I cut a piece of lasagna and place it on Aiden's plate, then take another one for myself. I try not to be greedy, but I'm starving. I was hungry even before our trip to the diner, and I didn't touch my food there. Then I've slept for who knows how long, so now I'm ravenous, and here's some home-cooked food that I missed so much. I don't bother with microwaving it—that would also make the whole kitchen smell like lasagna, and that they might notice. I just sit down and take a bite. It tastes so great that I close my eyes and moan with delight. BEST. THING. EVER.

"Your mother made it?" Aiden inquires politely. I open my eyes to see him take a tentative bite. He raises his eyebrows and nods approvingly. "Wow, that's good."

"You bet," I tell him through my mouthful. "It's her signature dish. The recipe passed down through generations and all that. Can you check if there's cola in the fridge?"

He gets up and returns with a cold, half-full plastic bottle. He places it on the table and looks around.

"Glasses?"

"Over there." I point at the cupboards by the fridge, and he goes there and returns with two glasses. There's something reassuring in things still being where they used to be, something that squeezes my heart and makes me want to smile and cry at the same time. If I'm not careful, I might end up doing both. So, I just focus on enjoying the food while Aiden pours us some cola.

"All right," I say as he sits down. "This here, Aiden, is the perfect first date. You've nailed it, at last. Congratulations."

He smiles and takes another bite.

"It's nice to see you in a good mood," he says.

"All it took is some lasagna."

"We both know it took more than that." He pushes his empty plate aside and leans back. "But it's getting better, isn't it? I told you things were going to get better."

We look at each other, and then I must look away. He's such a goddamn enigma. I think I'm beginning to trust him, and I'm not sure if I should fight that, or just let it happen. He's still an enemy, but he does make things better for me.

I examine the casserole, wondering if I can take another piece without it being too noticeable. Then, we both freeze at the sound of keys turning in the front door.

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