that's life

He opened his eyes again, this time more calmly. The shadows had lost their menace, the objects around him regained their reassuring appearance. A feeling of relief washed over him, like a gentle, comforting wave. He was at home, in his room, far from the clutches of the monsters of his dreams.

The child turned on his side, pulling the blanket up to his chin. The silence of the night resumed its course, lulled by the familiar sounds of the house. The beat of his heart became slower, more regular, accompanying his return to peaceful sleep.

Morning dawned slowly, golden light seeping through the bedroom's thick curtains. The child slowly opened his eyes, his mind still clouded by the mists of sleep. He stretched lazily, enjoying the comforting warmth of his bed before sitting up, taking a careful look around him.

The room was a haven of peace, a cocoon of security where every detail seemed designed to soothe. The walls were covered with delicate wallpaper with floral motifs, slightly faded with time. A large dark wooden bookshelf, filled with books with colorful covers, occupied one side of the room. On the floor, a soft carpet in warm colors cushioned his steps, while well-arranged stuffed toys rested in a corner, silent witnesses to numerous imaginary adventures.

A solid oak desk, covered with pencils, drawing sheets and small treasures found here and there, sat near the window. The dark blue velvet curtains were drawn, letting in just enough light to bathe the room in a soft morning glow. The furniture, although simple, was imbued with an old charm, its surfaces polished by years of use.

The child stood up, still feeling the softness of the carpet under his bare feet, and headed towards the bathroom. Passing through the hallway, he looked at the dilapidated walls, where the paint was peeling in places, revealing layers of older hues. Dusty photo frames, hung rickety, showed forgotten faces, memories of a bygone time. The floor, once carpeted, was now bare, exposing worn, creaking wooden planks.

Arriving in front of the bathroom door, he slowly pushed it open, discovering a room in stark contrast to his bedroom. The tiles, once white, were now tarnished, some even cracked. The sink, cracked, bore the marks of numerous summary repairs. An old bathtub, on legs, stood majestically, although its enamel was chipped and the copper faucets greenish with rust. The mirror above the sink, framed in carved wood, bore the marks of time, black spots staining its shine.

The child approached the mirror, looking into his own reflection. Her curly black hair framed a face with harmonious features, but it was her eyes that captured his attention. Deep blue, they shone with a dreamy glow, as if they carried within them the echoes of another life. He searched his own features, desperately trying to pierce the veil of memories.

Sometimes fragments of his past life floated to the surface of his consciousness, blurred images and vague emotions. This recurring nightmare was one of those vestiges, a half-open door to a forgotten past. He remembered faces without names, places without context, feelings disconnected from any present reality.

The child passed a hand over the mirror, as if to ensure the reality of his reflection. Every morning, he tried to put together the pieces of this scattered puzzle, hoping to understand the connection between his lives. But each morning, the pieces seemed to slip away, leaving more questions than answers.

He sighed softly, looking away. The bathroom, although dilapidated, offered a kind of comfort through its utility. He splashed his face with cool water, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep and dreams. The touch of the cold water against his skin was invigorating, an anchor holding him to the present.

As he finished drying his face, a soft, melodious voice pierced the silence of the house.

"Adam! Breakfast is ready!"

He jumped slightly, recognizing that calming voice echoing through the dilapidated halls of the house. It was a familiar voice, a melody that, with each call, seemed to erase the shadows of the past and bring back the warmth of the present.

Adam left the bathroom, walking lightly towards the kitchen. The corridor, although marked by time, seemed less dark in the morning light. The chips of faded paint seemed to tell ancient stories, secrets whispered between the damaged walls.

The kitchen, in contrast to the rest of the house, was a true haven of peace. As soon as he entered, he was enveloped by the comforting aromas of freshly brewed coffee and toast. Rays of sunlight streamed through the window, flooding the room with golden light. The walls, painted a soft cream shade, were adorned with a few shelves holding flower pots and aromatic herbs.

At the center of this warm scene stood a young woman, a vision of gentleness and beauty. She was about twenty years old, her mixed skin gleaming in the morning light. Her slightly wavy brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face with delicate features. Her deep brown eyes shone with a kind warmth as she busied herself with preparing breakfast.

Adam looked at her, a wave of recognition and gratitude washing over him. It was Lila, a constant and reassuring presence in his life. Its simplicity and natural grace gave the kitchen an air of sanctuary, a place where the cares of the world seemed to fade away.