Dakota Hyder

Secondhand Childhood

Alex woke to the sound of birdsong, soft and distant and impossibly familiar. The ceiling above was an off-white swirl of plaster, the kind they hadn’t seen in years, and the window to the right glowed with filtered morning light through yellow curtains. They sat up slowly, muscles aching like they’d slept too long, and looked around. The bedspread was pale blue. The wooden dresser had a chip in the corner. And the floor creaked in the exact same way it had when they were eight. Except, of course, they hadn’t lived here when they were eight. They had never been in this house before. And yet… they knew it.