The Dream That Cut

Sara collapsed to the floor, her face pressed against the cold stone; water dripped slowly from the tap. A ring disappeared down the drain, the broken pendant curled beside her head. Sleep pulled her inside before she could blink.

Sunlight streamed through the dusty curtains, splitting the peeling yellow paint across the room as she stood there in that dilapidated apartment. In the small kitchen, her mother twirled, her apron billowing around her waist, tossing golden pancakes into the air—perfect every time. Ten-year-old Sara walked barefoot, wearing a worn nightgown, tidying up plates with broken edges and giggling as sticky syrup dripped down her arm. The melody of an old song on the radio broke the silence. Her mother spun her around, their hands clasped together, until they both collapsed onto the sunken sofa. “Everything we need is here,” she murmured, placing a kiss on Sara’s hair. This thought pulsed within her, beat by beat.

The dream had changed. The same