The morning rays filtered in through the window, bathing the bedroom in soft light. In the distance, the blare of a horn interrupted the tranquillity of the day. Hal opened his eyes blearily, staring up at the white ceiling. He thought he closed the blinds last night. And who was honking in a neighbor located in the middle of nowhere? There was something… off about the room. Though he knew where he was, something felt oddly unfamiliar. For a few seconds, his groggily mind struggled to piece it together. Abruptly, he sat up, his weariness vanishing in an instant. How in the world did he end up in his old bedroom? Sure, he had one — or several — too many bottles of beer, but he shouldn’t have gotten drunk enough to break into his old house. Which begs the question: where were the homeowners? And why did everything look exactly how it did before he moved? They even have a photo of his family sitting on top of the dresser. It was unsettling… no, terrifying. Oh, why did it matter? He slumped down, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Does any of the how and why matter? Hal should appreciate that they didn’t kick him out to the street and left him to fend for himself. He would likely end up penniless or worse. Of course, it would be ironic if he died last night, exactly a year since— And then, he heard it: the unmistakable sound of a glass shattering against the floor, followed shortly by a voice he never thought he would hear again. “God damn it!” a female voice swore. Hal bolted upright, his heart pounding in his chest. Impossible! His ears must be deceiving him. It couldn’t be her. She was dead. Buried six feet deep and never to feel the sunlight on her face again. But… he threw off his blanket, stumbling onto his feet. Not bothering to find his slippers, he yanked open the door and rushed towards the kitchen where he heard her. Then froze. And there she was, sweeping broken shards of glass into a dustpan. She glanced over her shoulder, her mischievous blue eyes narrowing as she took in Hal’s disheveled appearance. “You look great, Dad,” she quipped, her lips quirking up in a familiar smirk. “That bed hair is really on point.” He barely heard her teasing. He took a timid step forward, one arm reaching out hesitantly. “P-Penelope?” he whispered, his breath catching in his throat. “Are you…?” He swallowed hard, unsure what to say. Real? Alive? Would he be prepared for whatever answer she gave him? Suddenly, two hands shoved him, and he staggered back unevenly. “Dad, be careful! You almost stepped on glass,” Penelope scolded, eyeing his bare feet. She hesitated, her expression softening into concern as she studied his wide-eyed expression. “Are you… okay? You look like you just saw— oh!” She cried out in surprise as Hal pulled his daughter in for a tight hug. She was here, not a single bruise marring her skin. He didn’t know what happened, how she was here, but he wasn’t going to look at a gift horse in its mouth. “You’re alive,” he murmured, hot tears springing out of his eyes. “My baby… my baby girl is alive.” “Uh, yeah,” Penelope replied, tinged with confusion. “Dropping something isn’t going to kill me or anything.” She wiggled, trying to break free of his grip. “But I might just die if you keep crushing my ribs. Or block off my oxygen supply.” He stiffened, releasing her for a mere second before grabbing onto her shoulders. “Don’t joke like that!” he shouted furiously. “You can’t… I—” What was he doing, yelling at his daughter like that? His arms dropped limply by his side. Closing his eyes, he took in a shuddering breath. Images spring into his mind. Penelope lying in a hospital bed, her frail body battered with cuts and bruises. Penelope hooked up to too many machines, slipping in and out of a coma. And finally, Penelope closing her eyes for the final time, her limp hand still cruelly warm to the touch. “Dad!” Penelope’s voice jarred him out of his thoughts, and he opened his eyes. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?” Hal shook his head, trying to calm down. Smiling through his tears, he whispered, “Nothing. Nothing is wrong.” Suddenly, something crossed his mind. Quickly, he located the mostly unused calendar hanging on the wall, and his heart began to pound. It was flipped to September but didn’t indicate the exact day. “What is the date today?” he asked, hoping he sounded casual. “The 22nd.” Hal almost choked on his own spit. She was going to die today! No, he thought to himself, I will not let that happen. He would find a way to change her plans — he would force her to if it came to that — and this time, she will live.