"Oh no, I woke up late!!! The kids are late for school," I muttered, springing out of bed at 8 a.m., heart racing. I stole a glance at myself—a thirty-year-old woman with long, messy hair, deep brown eyes hiding exhaustion, dark circles that could rival the night sky, and a night suit that had clearly seen better days. No time to dwell—I dashed toward the kids' room.
"Chill. It's Sunday. Why are you panicking?"
I froze. His voice. Calm. Deep. Grounding. My husband leaned against the doorway, his lean six-foot frame casually effortless, brown hair slightly tousled, and that smile—the one that always made me forget why I was panicking in the first place.
"Sunday, yes… but we have errands! And the kids!" I barked, pacing like a caged tiger.
He laughed—a low, warm sound that melted a fraction of my stress. "You worry too much, babe. Let's just breathe."
The smell of brewing tea pulled me into the kitchen like a magnet. "Okay, fine. Maybe one cup won't hurt," I conceded, finally letting my shoulders drop.
We sipped in near-silence, the quiet a rare luxury, until… a tiny crash and a high-pitched giggle shattered it.
"Guess who's awake?" I called, peeking into the living room.
"The chaos twins?" he teased, smirking.
"Exactly. And if Mira throws her doll at me one more time…"
He chuckled and shook his head. "They saved all their energy for bedtime stories anyway."
The day blurred past—cartoon wars, snack skirmishes, frantic cleaning. By evening, I collapsed on the couch, utterly drained. Mira, sparkling-eyed and five years old, climbed onto my lap.
"Story time, Mamma!" she insisted.
"I… I'm too tired, princess. Maybe tomorrow?" I tried, but she shook her head fiercely.
My husband stepped in, scooping up Arin. "I've got this. Arin, go grab a book."
The boy dashed off, returning with a thick hardcover. Dust motes floated like tiny stars in the sunbeam streaming through the window. My husband and I exchanged a glance. We both knew—this book wasn't really for the kids. But we began the story anyway.
His voice wove magic, warm and smooth, painting worlds that seemed to lift the day's chaos away. I closed my eyes, letting the story pull me under… and then—
I woke up.
Not on the couch. Not in my apartment. My mother was humming softly, bustling in the kitchen, packing my lunch.
Wait. What?!
I blinked. My legs were tiny, my hands small, my surroundings… familiar. My childhood bedroom. Posters of cartoon characters lined the walls. My school bag sat neatly by the door.
"Mom! Wait, what…?!" My voice pitched higher than it should, squeaky and unfamiliar.
She turned, smiling warmly. "Hurry up, sleepyhead! First day of Class 3, remember?"
Class 3? Seven years old? My brain short-circuited. Tiny hands. Small bed. Everything… real, yet impossible.

"Okay… what the actual hell is happening?!" I gasped, clutching the edge of the bed, my heart hammering.