Drifting Between Worlds

Ethan Carter didn’t move for a long time.

His reflection in the window stared back at him—an older, wearier version of himself that he didn’t recognize. His heart pounded in his ears, his breath shallow.

“This—this doesn’t make sense,” he murmured, stepping away from the window.

The man in the brown coat—Ethan still didn’t know his name—watched him with measured patience. “It’s not supposed to. Not yet.”

Ethan clenched his fists. “You said I was being shown something. By who? Why?”

The man sighed, as if debating how much to say. “This isn’t random, Ethan. You’re moving through places, but you’re also moving through yourself. Every city you wake up in isn’t just another stop—it’s a piece of the puzzle. A memory. A truth you’ve been avoiding.”

Ethan’s stomach twisted. “That’s bullshit. I’ve never even been to Barcelona before yesterday. And London? The last time I came here, I was fifteen.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

Ethan opened his mouth to respond—but the words died in his throat.

Because was he sure?

The last few days—or weeks?—had thrown everything he knew into question. His past no longer felt solid. The more he tried to recall exact moments—his last real conversation with his sister, his last day at work, even what he had eaten before bed that night in Chicago—the more it all blurred together.

His fingers curled around the newspaper again. Missing for three weeks.

Three weeks that he had no memory of.

His pulse quickened. He needed to breathe. Needed to think.

Pushing past the man, Ethan strode toward the nightstand, searching for anything familiar. He yanked open the drawer.

His hands froze.

Inside was a photograph.

It was old, edges worn, the colors faded. But it was unmistakable.

Him and his father.

A lump formed in his throat.

The photo was from when he was a kid—maybe eight or nine. He was grinning up at his dad, a tooth missing from his smile, while his father ruffled his hair. Behind them, the London Eye stood tall, a reminder of their last vacation together before everything had fallen apart.

Ethan’s breath hitched. He hadn’t seen this picture in years. It had been lost when they moved out of their childhood home.

So how was it here?

His fingers tightened around the edges of the photo. “What the hell is this?”

The man in the brown coat remained by the door, watching. “Your past is calling you.”

Ethan swallowed hard. “I don’t understand.”

The man took a step forward. “Your mind is fractured. There are things you’ve locked away—things you weren’t ready to face. But you can’t run from them anymore.”

Ethan shook his head. “That’s not—” He exhaled sharply, his grip on the photo trembling. “I don’t remember any of this. I don’t remember losing time. I don’t remember forgetting my own life.”

The man studied him. “Because you buried it.”

Ethan’s breath stalled.

Buried it.

The words sent a cold shiver through him.

He looked at the photo again.

A memory surfaced.

Not just of the trip—but of the fight. The way his father had yelled that last night in London. The way Ethan had cried, curled up in bed, wishing he could be anywhere else. Wishing he could disappear.

And then, years later, he had.

His father had died. His sister had moved on. And Ethan had let himself drift through life, never staying in one place for too long, never fully being anywhere.

Always running.

His fingers tightened around the photograph.

The man in the brown coat tilted his head. “You’re waking up, Ethan. Slowly, but surely.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched. “And what happens when I fully wake up?”

The man gave a small, almost sad smile. “You’ll have to decide if you want to keep running—or if you’re finally ready to heal.”

Ethan swallowed hard.

For the first time since this nightmare began, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.Start writing...