Martha’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at the boy’s wrist. That birthmark—it was identical to the one her four-year-old son had, down to the smallest curve. But how could that be? Her son was at daycare. The boy’s eyes—so familiar, so desperate—met hers as he whispered, “Because I am him.” He claimed he had gone to sleep as her little boy and woken up like this, in a much older body.
Martha’s mind raced, trying to reject the impossible, but everything about him—his voice, his mannerisms, even the way he nervously wrung his fingers—matched her child. She backed away slowly, her grip tightening on the doorframe, unsure whether to run, scream, or embrace him. And then, as she stared into those tear-filled brown eyes, one chilling question echoed in her mind…
