In the days following the storm, Emily lay on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The events of that fateful day replayed in her mind—the close call, the way her body seemed to instinctively react to the shifting temperature, pressure, and subtle changes in the environment. Then there was the voice—the one she had ignored for so long, dismissing it as fleeting thoughts or her imagination. However the day of the tornado, the voice hadn’t just been a murmur. It had urged her, guided her, and even protected her and her family.

  She couldn’t explain it, or deny it anymore - that deep in the recesses of her mind belonged to Daniel—whoever, or whatever, he, she or it was. Although it didn’t feel malicious, the very idea of his presence unsettled her. What did it all mean? Why was it there? And why had she only now begun to truly hear it?

  A part of her also doubted herself - perhaps this was this all her imagination? Perhaps there was an undiagnosed mental health disorder at play? Or perhaps she just possessed a particularly vivid conscience?

  As she pondered her existence, a troubling question arose - one she felt compelled to address.

  Was she Daniel?

  Had she inadvertently taken over another person’s body?

  She felt a wave of nausea as guilt surged through her at the very idea. Had she or he unwittingly suppressed the consciousness of a child? This possibility sickened her to her core, her stomach twisting and wanting to retch at the monstrous moral implications.

  Yet, when she considered the genuine relationships and joy she’d experienced, the theory seemed less plausible. Could an imposter feel such real, profound emotions toward her friends and family? These feelings were deeply ingrained and sincere - not shallow echoes or husks of borrowed memories. No - these memories were hers. They came from a place deep within, not tainted by dissonance or guilt that she expected she would feel if she were truly an imposter.

  Instead of alienation she felt connection and love. No - the happiness she found in her connections couldn’t be dismissed as a facade. If she were merely Daniel, hiding behind a child’s consciousness, wouldn’t those moments of joy feel false? Wouldn’t they feel akin to something borrowed or stolen, rather than owned?

  This realization offered comfort although a nagging sense of doubt lingered. “Am I making excuses?” she wondered glumly . “Am I rationalizing thoughts away?”

  “No, kid—you’re not BS-ing anything…” that familiar yet foreign voice whispered hesitantly, startling Emily. Wide-eyed, she spoke aloud, her voice trembling, “Daniel, who—or what—are you? Please… just tell me.”

  There was only silence.

  —

  As Emily sifted through the tangled web of her memories - she felt there was a span of time that felt disjointed. There were specific moments, pieces of time, that felt ephemeral, as if she had viewed them through someone else’s lens. Her brow furrowed as she clenched her hands tightly as more patterns fell into place. Those weeks earlier in the year - why did they feel so disconnected? Events seemed fractured, key details missing, almost like a series of snapshots..

  Take the first day of school, for example. How had she even gotten there? Her memories of meeting Lily and Lucy were hazy, as though she had only seen fragments of their introductions rather than truly experiencing them.

  She could recall Lucy greeting her on the playground, but the emotions that should have accompanied that moment felt strangely absent. She remembered breaking her pencil, the nervousness that followed, and Lily shyly offering one of hers—but the sense of relief felt borrowed, as though it belonged to someone else. It was as if she had been present, but not entirely there.

  She froze as the realization struck her that these were memories - that did not entirely feel like her own. It was as if someone else had lived those moments, someone who had been in her place but wasn’t her. “Daniel…” she whispered furtively “Were these…your memories?”

  She knew that this thought - this answer was illogical, completely unbelievable yet - it felt right; as if a missing piece of the puzzle had finally fit in place. The more she considered why these memories felt so distant, why she had this gnawing feeling that she had been there but on the periphery, the faster her heart seemed to beat.

  “Why?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Why is this happening to me? Why are you in my head Daniel? Why did you take over? Did…you take over?”

  Her thoughts spiraled, fear and confusion gnawing at her “Why me? And…why did you hide those memories? Did…you hide those memories?” Her eyes burned as the questions relentlessly piled up one after another. Fear and confusion turned to anger as she closed her eyes and lashed out “You were jabbering away for so long - why are you so quiet all of a sudden? Come on - just tell me what is going on!!!”

  All she heard back in reply was silence. Silence tinged with…guilt, sorrow, fear.

  —

  Disturbed by her thoughts, Emily embarked on a walk to clear her head. She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and stepped out into the familiar streets that today seemed unusually foreign, almost ethereal. As she walked down the block, she found herself pausing at a park she often visited. She gazed at the empty swings, gently swaying and creaking in the wind, a stark contrast to her own internal conflict.

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  A sudden rush of images flooded her mind—she saw a boy, a few years younger than her, awkwardly lanky, with hair that fell in a tousled mop, sitting alone on a swing. His hands gripped the chains while his shoulders hunched, seemingly carrying the weight of the world. It was his eyes, however, that made Emily gasp. They were deep brown, sharp, intelligent, but filled to the brim with longing as he stared at other children happily playing with friends and family.

  The memory felt sharp and distant at once, like it belonged to someone else. Yet she also felt Sarah’s hands on her back as she sat on the swings, pushing her higher, and Thomas’s fingers fumbling to tie her shoelaces moments later. The two images clashed, leaving her frozen.

  "What…was that?" she whispered to herself, shaking her head to clear it.

  “I just…wanted to belong…why was I alone…always,” the voice deep within her mind finally whispered sorrowfully, so soft that Emily wasn’t sure if it was real or her imagination.

  Uneasy, Emily quickened her pace, circling around the block and returning home. She found herself, almost drawn by instinct, flipping through old photo albums in search of something solid, something she knew belonged to her.

  Each image brought back snippets of the boy’s life instead—climbing stairs in an unfamiliar house, clutching a broken toy, faceless people shouting, yelling as the boy curled under a blanket, a haunting loneliness that wasn’t her own.

  "Why do I remember things that aren’t mine?" she muttered. Were these fragments of Daniel’s memories, bleeding into hers? Or were they something more—pieces of herself she didn’t yet understand?

  The memories abruptly stopped as Emily shut the album with trembling hands.

  “It’s not time yet…” the voice whispered hesitatingly, and Emily realized it sounded…apologetic.

  —

  The following morning, Emily woke up feeling utterly exhausted after the previous day’s mental trials. The night had been filled with restless tossing and turning, her mind struggling to decipher her reality.

  Consequently - at school, Emily was irritable, snapping at her friends and fellow students often over trivial matters.

  Lucy - typically one of her dearest friends - bore the brunt of this frustration when she tried to surprise Emily with a surprise hug. “Lucy - I am not in the mood for this today!” she snapped leaving the typically extroverted Lucy stunned and subsequently sullen the remainder of the day.

  The emotions from this hasty outburst only worsened Emily’s spirits. She profusely apologized to an understandably hurt Lucy, but it did not alleviate her guilt.

  Emily additionally found it impossible to concentrate on her schoolwork. Under normal circumstances, she found the lessons to be playfully easy. However, on that day, each task no matter how minor seemed to add up to feel monumental and overwhelming in nature. She struggled with simple math problems, language lessons, and couldn't focus during reading time.

  When the class moved to arts and crafts, Emily struggled to create a paper collage. Cutting and gluing pieces of colored paper onto the page should have been relaxing, but it triggered something deep within her. Fragments of Daniel’s memories bled into her mind.

  She saw a boy awkwardly arranging shapes on construction paper in a classroom that wasn’t hers. She felt the weight of ghostly classmates’ stares, silent and distant. Another memory rose—Daniel on swings, his grip failing, toppling to the ground, his cries unanswered. She remembered the feel of a pencil in his hand as he painstakingly traced early alphabets. These weren’t her memories, but they lingered like shadows of a dream—too vivid to dismiss, yet too blurry to fully grasp.

  “I’m losing it,” Emily thought bitterly as her hands stilled. Her head throbbed, and her breathing quickened. “If I stay here one more second, I don’t know what I’ll do—I need to get some space.”

  Without waiting for permission, she excused herself and rushed to the lavatory, hoping for even a moment’s reprieve - just a bit of space.

  —

  The bathroom was thankfully empty.

  Emily’s breath came in shallow, rapid gasps as she gripped the sink counter with both hands. Her reflection glared back at her, pale and wild-eyed, mirroring the chaos in her mind.

  “Who…or what am I?” she growled, her tone harsh and biting. The face in the mirror—her face—felt like a stranger’s, mocking her.

  “WHO AM I?!” she screamed internally, frustration building to a crescendo.

  “Who the HELL is Daniel? WHAT am I?”

  Her emotions surged uncontrollably, boiling over. She slammed her hands down on the counter, once, twice, three times, again and again - the pain sharp but barely cutting through the noise in her mind. She kept pounding, her silent rage spilling out, every strike felt like an outlet against the fear, the anger, the suffocating doubt which clawed back at her demanding release.

  Until finally a voice spoke out beseechingly - “Stop it! Stop hurting yourself!”

  The voice cut through the chaos, startling her into stillness. Her fists froze mid-air, her breath catching in her throat.

  She gasped as an image flashed before her eyes—a boy, awkwardly lanky with a mop of unruly hair, staring at her with deep brown eyes filled with anguish. He wasn’t just watching her; he was begging her. She could feel it.

  “You’re Emily!” he said, his voice filled with urgency. “I promise you, you’re Emily. You’re not insane—you’re Emily and…so much more!”

  Just like that, he was gone. The image shattered like glass, leaving Emily trembling in the quiet as the voice receded back into the folds of her mind

  “What in the…” she whispered, stumbling back from the sink. Her back hit the tiled wall with a dull thud.

  “OW!” she muttered, rubbing her head as her reflection swam back into focus. She stared at the ghostly pale girl in the mirror, her mind spinning.

  “Daniel?” she whispered aloud, her voice shaky, as if she expected the mirror to answer her. The air around her felt dank, heavy, as if something unseen lingered - biting their tongue, battling their own guilt. Then, just as suddenly as the voice had come, it returned—quieter now, hesitant but steady.

  “The time is almost here, Emily… Just…be patient. A little longer.”

  Emily froze as a wave of warmth washed over her, soft and unexpected, like an invisible hug wrapping around her. It was subtle but undeniable, a feeling that wasn’t hers but still felt… right. It was comforting, reassuring, and it settled the storm raging inside her.

  Her breathing slowed, her thoughts untangling just enough to let her think clearly for the first time in what felt like hours. She wasn’t okay—not yet—but she wasn’t falling apart anymore.

  She placed her hands back on the sink, staring hard at her reflection. “Daniel,” she said again, her voice firmer this time, but the bathroom was silent.

  Only the lingering warmth remained, like a promise left behind.