Later that night, unable to sleep, Lucas padded down to the kitchen for water. As he passed his dad’s home office, he slowed. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, Daisy and Robert stood close, whispering in low, urgent voices. Lucas didn’t catch the words, but the tone was unmistakable: worried.
He didn’t knock. Just stood there, heart suddenly thudding, before retreating to his room. That flicker of fear he’d felt on the ride? It was back. And this time, it wasn’t just in his head. His parents knew something. The question now was—what?
Lucas couldn’t explain it. There was no single moment he could point to—just fragments, glances, words unsaid. But something had shifted. A tremor beneath the surface. His parents were hiding something. And the visions—those piercing flashes—they didn’t feel imagined. They felt lived. Like echoes of a life forgotten.
He’d never thought much about his early childhood. Most people couldn’t remember anything before six or seven. Neither could he. But ever since that ride at Disneyland, the absence of those years felt louder. More deliberate. Like a missing page torn clean from the beginning of a story.