The rusted key fits the lock like it always does, but the house no longer feels like home. My mind is fogged, and too many things have changed. It’s as if my memories were stolen from me by an unknown authority.

My dog Desmond is still chained in the back yard, left behind like always. He curls around himself as he naps, leaves and brambles catching in his long curly fur. Whenever I walked in, he would always jump on his legs and run as far as his chain will allow him. Now, he doesn’t move an inch.

The stench of burnt wood mingling through the walls from the untouched foundations remains. As soon as you stepped foot inside, it would travel with your every step. It’s at its strongest in the bathroom.

When I venture inside, the changes within it unfold before me. The tiling is patterned with black hexagons ordered into neat diagonal rows instead of the dirty white squares. The counter is a dark obsidian instead of its original chipped quartz. I run my fingers against the shower curtain, now a dark navy blue. The smell remains, but now it’s mixed with something foreign. Rotten, with a hint of decay. I do not worry about the overwhelming unfamiliarity, because voices drift in. Voices of my family.

“Make sure to put the ice cream in the downstairs freezer!”

My mother. She looks much shorter than she used to.

“Can’t we put it in the one up here?”

My sister. Her hair is a different color, dyed a dark blue.

“No, we can’t. It’s broken, remember? We’re using the one in the basement until it’s fixed.”

My father. He’s wearing glasses now.

Jars rattle, paper bags crumble. I enter the kitchen and ask, “Hey, guys. Back already?”

The routine restocking of food does not cease. My sister’s head still arches downward toward her phone.

“Hello? Earth to family?”

My father brings in the last of the bags. “Where did Jaime go?”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I’m right here!” My hands reach out to his, hoping to firmly grasp him, to make him see me, but they fall through. Like stones to water, I’m slipping through his skin and bones. “Hey!”

“I’ll go check his bedroom. He might be asleep,” my mother suggested. Her eyes glaze with worry, a look I begin to fear. She rushes to my room. Slippers hurriedly scuff against the floor.

“Sweetheart,” she knocks gently on my bedroom door, closed tightly the way I always have it.

“Mom, I’m right here!” I say. “Turn around!”

She ignores me. With nervous hands, she turns the doorknob.

Then, a scream.

My father and sister rush to her side, letting out cries of anguish and despair.

I look over their shoulders, and cry with them, even if I am not heard.

A head of curly black hair peeks from under my bed. Pools of blood surround it, as if aiming to drown it. The rotting smell from the bathroom returned stronger, more pungent. It curled around my nostrils, begging me to come closer and explode further.

I step forward, and the memories flash before me. That moment was the only chance I had at finding out who did this. It was fleeting, too much for my brain to organize into one concrete timeline.

I turn to my neighbors house.