The Morning That Wasn’t

The kitchen was warm, filled with the scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee. It wasn’t spotless, but it was lived-in—every counter, every shelf telling a story of countless meals and shared laughter. The mother moved through it with practiced ease, flipping pancakes on the griddle while sausages sizzled in the pan.

She set the table carefully, placing each family member’s favorite dish in their spot. A steaming cup of coffee for her husband, herbal tea for her daughter, and a glass of orange juice for her son. Then, as always, she called up the stairs.

“Breakfast is ready!”

Silence.

She frowned. Usually, the kids would come barreling down, eager for their favorite morning meal. She called again.

Still nothing.

Her heart began to pound as she climbed the stairs. The bedrooms were empty. The beds were untouched, as if no one had slept in them. She rushed to the master bedroom—her husband was gone too.

Panic set in. The house was too quiet, too still. She checked the garage. The car was there, parked exactly where it should be. She ran outside, scanning the street, hoping to see them walking back, maybe from a morning errand she had forgotten about.

Nothing.

She returned to the kitchen, her hands trembling as she cleaned up the untouched breakfast. A dull ache formed at the back of her head, and she rubbed at it absentmindedly.

Then, as she reached for a napkin, her vision blurred, and she stumbled. The world tilted—then went dark.

She woke up in bed, her husband's arm draped over her. She bolted upright, breathless.

She ran to the children’s rooms. They were there, sleeping peacefully.

Relief washed over her, but as she made her way back to the kitchen, her stomach twisted. The table was set. Exactly as it had been in her dream.

And then—faintly, from upstairs—she heard her own voice calling, “Breakfast is ready!”