The crack in my reality appeared on a crisp Thursday morning in late October. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp leaves—a scent I usually found comforting, but today, it would mark the beginning of a nightmare.

I was rushing to my car, juggling my work bag and a travel mug, when a voice drifted over the hedge.

“Olivia, dear?”

I paused, turning to see Mrs. Greene, my elderly neighbor. She was a fixture of the neighborhood, a woman who spent her days pruning hydrangeas and observing the street with the precision of a surveillance camera.

“Good morning, Mrs. Greene,” I called out, forcing a polite smile. “I’m running a bit late, but—”

“Is Lily skipping school again?” she asked. Her tone wasn’t accusatory; it was gentle, laced with a genuine confusion that made my stomach lurch.

I froze, my hand hovering over the car door handle. The wind seemed to stop.

“Skipping?” I laughed, a brittle, nervous sound. “No, Mrs. Greene. Lily loves school. She goes every single day. I drop her off at the bus stop myself.”