Chapter 1

When I pushed open the front door, Christmas dinner had just been set on the table.

Mom poked her head out from the kitchen:

"Is Claire home? Go wash your hands, we're about to eat!"

Dad sat in his usual spot, clutching the TV remote in his hand.

Everything was exactly the same as the past twenty-six Christmas Eves.

Until I went to the bathroom to wash my hands.

Thirty seconds. I was only gone for thirty seconds.

When I came back, a strange man was sitting in Dad's seat.

A strange woman walked out of the kitchen carrying a soup bowl, her hair styled in trendy curls.

It was still the same elm wood dining table, the same dishes, even the tableware hadn't moved.

But the people eating—they had all changed.

Seven strangers, sitting around my family's dining table, eating my family's Christmas dinner.

"Who are you people? Where are my parents!"

My voice was shaking.

All seven of them looked up at once.

The white-haired old man in the head seat put down his fork:

"Miss, who are you looking for?"

"This is my house!"

The curly-haired woman laughed first:

"Miss, you must have the wrong place. This is our home."

"That's impossible!" I pointed at the table.

"This table has a burn mark on the lower left corner. I made it when I was seven."

Everyone looked down.

The burn mark was indeed there.

"Coincidence."

The curly-haired woman said.

I pointed at the ceramic bowl:

"This soup bowl has my name carved on the bottom—Claire . I carved it when I was ten."

They didn't touch the bowl, but their expressions changed.

The white-haired old man stood up:

"Miss, I don't know how you know these things, but this really is our home. My name is Robert Williams, this is my son James, his wife Sarah, and their children..."

I didn't answer. I turned and rushed into the inner room.

My bedroom door was open, but inside it had become a children's room.

Family photos of strangers hung on the wall—the seven people currently at the dining table.

James stood up:

"Dad, what's going on?"

I finally broke down:

"I should be asking you that! Thirty seconds ago when I came in, this was my parents' house! Thirty seconds later, it became yours! The food hasn't changed, the table hasn't changed—where are the people? Where are my parents?"

Sarah's face turned pale:

"Miss, are you... having hallucinations? We've been preparing dinner since this afternoon..."

"Hallucinations?"

I dragged over my suitcase, opened it, and pulled out a photo frame.

The frame held a picture of me and my parents, taken last Christmas in this same living room.

The photo was passed around among the seven people.

James's voice came out dry:

"This photo... it's photoshopped, right?"

"I have videos on my phone too!"

I patted my pockets.

Strange, where was my phone?

"Is that phone on the shoe cabinet by the entrance yours?"

Sarah spoke up to remind me.

I looked at her suspiciously, then found my phone where she said.

I opened my recent files.

It was a screen recording of a video call with Mom from ten days ago, the background identical down to the smallest detail.

But halfway through the video, Mom's image suddenly distorted.

Amid the buzzing static, Mom's face shook and warped, then transformed into Sarah's face.

Sarah in the video smiled at the camera:

"Claire honey, when are you coming home for the holidays?"

The phone clattered to the floor.

By the time I picked it up, the video had returned to normal. From beginning to end, it was my mother.

"What's going on!"

I jerked my head up.

"Did you tamper with the video when I wasn't paying attention!"

Robert sighed:

"Miss, if you can't even tell what's real in your own phone videos, I suggest you go to the hospital and get your head checked. Stop making a scene."

"I'm not making a scene! You've been planning this all along, haven't you!"

James's face darkened:

"If you keep talking nonsense, I'm calling the police."

"Go ahead! Let the police come see whose house this really is!"

James really did call the police.

During the twenty-minute wait, we remained at an impasse.

The Williams family continued eating, though half-heartedly.

I sat on my suitcase, staring intently at them, at this house.

That door leading to the balcony—the paint had chipped off the lower right corner when I crashed into it with my tricycle as a child.

The clock on the wall was the Roman numeral style Dad loved.

Even the smell in the air was exactly the same as in my memories.

How could this not be my home?

The police finally arrived—one older, one younger.

The older officer showed his badge. His name was Officer Mitchell.

After hearing both our accounts, he frowned deeply.

"You say this is your home. Do you have proof?"

I pulled out property documents:

"The homeowners are David and Linda—my parents."

Officer Mitchell looked them over, then turned to Robert:

"And yours?"

Robert produced property documents.

Officer Mitchell compared the two documents, his frown deepening.