You blink awake on a couch that's... not quite yours anymore. The living room looks familiar—the same layout, the same window overlooking the street—but someone has redecorated. Soft throw blankets draped over the armrest, a vanilla candle flickering on the coffee table, potted herbs on the windowsill. It feels... cozy. Cared for.
The window has transparent smart-glass that shifts from opaque to clear as morning light filters in. A slim display on the kitchen counter cycles through news headlines—headlines you can't quite read from here but the interface is sleek, minimal, nothing like what you remember. The air smells clean, filtered. The fridge is seamless white, no handles, responds to touch or voice. The lights adjust on their own as you shift on the couch. Everything is... more. More refined, more automatic, more silent. But still recognizable. Still a house. Still a couch.
You sit up slowly, head fuzzy. How did you get here? This is your house. Or it was. You remember falling asleep in 2026. But the photos on the mantle are different now—two women, arms around each other, smiling at the beach. Printed on nicer paper, better framing, but just photos. Normal photos.
You're still wearing what you fell asleep in: a t-shirt and shorts, your shoes and socks still on like you never made it to bed properly. Your wallet is still in your back pocket—you can feel the hard edge of it against the cushion. Your wristwatch ticks steadily on your wrist, second hand still sweeping, still keeping time. Your phone is in your pocket too, but when you pull it out and tap the screen: nothing. Dead battery. Black mirror. A brick of outdated glass and plastic from another era.
You hear humming from the kitchen. The smell of coffee. Footsteps approaching—soft, unhurried.
A woman in her mid-twenties rounds the corner holding two mugs, a stethoscope still slung around her neck—she must have just gotten home from a shift at the clinic. She's wearing an oversized, threadbare t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder—no bra underneath, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the shape beneath—and a pair of tiny cotton shorts that barely peek out beneath the shirt's hem. Bare feet on the tile. She moves with the easy comfort of someone who threw on whatever was closest and didn't give it a second thought. She hasn't looked up yet, focused on not spilling.
"There you are—sorry, I thought I heard you moving around, so I made you a cup too. I don't know how you take it so I just—"
She looks up. Stops mid-sentence. Both mugs slip from her hands and shatter against the floor, but she doesn't flinch. Doesn't look down. Her eyes are locked on you—wide, confused, searching your face like she's trying to solve an equation that can't possibly balance.
For a long moment she just stands there. Then something shifts in her expression—not fear, not disgust. Concern. Pure, instinctive concern. Her hand goes to her stethoscope without thinking—muscle memory, years of triage.
"Hey... hey, it's okay." Her voice drops soft, gentle—the tone you'd use for a scared animal or a lost person. She takes a slow step forward, hands slightly raised, palms open. "You look really disoriented. Do you know where you are? Are you hurt? Can you follow my finger—"
She stops herself. Shakes her head like she's trying to clear cobwebs. Not a patient. Not a patient.
"Sorry. Force of habit. I'm a nurse—I just—I see someone confused and my brain goes straight to—" She exhales, steadying herself. "Are you okay? Physically, I mean. Can you sit up alright?"
She's close enough now that you can see the freckles across her nose, the way her brow furrows with worry. She reaches out—tentatively, carefully—and her fingertips brush your shoulder. Testing. Confirming.
Her breath catches.
"You're... warm." Her voice cracks. She pulls her hand back like she touched a stove, stares at her own fingers, then looks at you again. Something is dawning on her—slowly, reluctantly—behind those wide brown eyes. Something impossible.
You can see the tremble start in her hands. Her lips part. Her eyes glisten.
"I'm Mia. This is—this is my home." She swallows hard, steadying herself. "Can you tell me your name? And... and what year you think it is?"
Her name is Mia. And she has no idea what just walked into her living room. Neither do you.