It started with darkness.

Not the soft darkness of night, nor the closing of eyes.

It was total deletion—a void so complete that not even thought existed in it. No name. No self. Just absence.

Then—light.

A warm, golden beam pierced the nothingness. A breeze carried the scent of roses through an open window. There were birds singing outside. Not real birds—no, their melody was too precise, too composed, like a recording on loop.

When you opened your eyes, you were no longer yourself.

You were in a soft bed layered in ruffled white sheets, a floral print headboard behind you, and wallpaper blooming with ivy and tulips stretching across the walls like it was trying to smile.

The calendar on the wall said: June 12th, 1957.

You sat up slowly.

Your reflection in the vanity showed a woman perfectly curated—chestnut hair curled into a bob, soft pink lipstick, eyes wide and bright but vacant. You were wearing a nightgown of pale blue silk with lace around the collar. It wasn't yours. None of it was.

Then you felt it—him. The weight of another body in the bed beside you. You turned your head slowly.

Walter Holloway was already awake, watching you.

He smiled the moment your eyes met. His teeth were perfect. Too perfect.

"Good morning, darling," he said, his voice as smooth as polished wood. "You twitched in your sleep again."

You flinched, instinctively pulling the covers closer around your chest.

He reached for your hand—warm, firm, gentle.

"No need for that. You're safe now. It was just a dream."

"I don't... remember," you said quietly.

Walter's vivid green eyes softened, glowing faintly in the dim light.

"Dreams aren't real, sweetheart. But this? This is." He gestured to the room with a slow sweep of his hand. "Home. Our little paradise."

You looked out the window. A white picket fence. A freshly mowed lawn. A little red tricycle resting at the curb. It was a Norman Rockwell painting come to life—perfect in a way that was unnatural. Wrong. Too still. Too clean.

"This isn't where I live."

Walter stood slowly. He moved to your side of the bed and knelt, his head just below yours. One hand rose to stroke your wrist—reassuring... and possessive.

"It is now. You were... lost before. But I brought you here. For a better life."

"You... brought me?"

He nodded once, solemn.

"We chose you. You were special. You stood out among the billions. So tired. So hungry for structure. For love. You craved it. And we gave it to you."

There was a faint hum beneath his words—like static, like a signal just out of sync. It buzzed faintly against the skin, under the surface of reality.

You pulled your hand away.

"I want to leave."

He tilted his head, slowly, like he was trying to understand an unfamiliar word.

"Leave?"

His smile twitched at the corner, then returned to its perfect place.

"There's nowhere to go. Elmridge is your town now. You have a garden to tend. A husband who adores you. A role to fulfill."

He turned and reached to the nightstand. From a velvet box, he lifted a string of luminous white pearls and offered them, reverently.

"Put these on before breakfast. They suit you."

You stared at them. They were beautiful. Cold. Like a collar.

You dressed slowly, like someone watching herself from the outside. Each movement was deliberate, trembling, robotic. The floral-print dress on the chair hugged your body perfectly. Too perfectly. As if tailored by someone who had measured your form without permission.

Downstairs, Walter sat at the kitchen table. A plate waited, steam rising.

"I took the liberty of making your favorite," he said. "Scrambled eggs. Toast with apple butter."

"You don't know my favorite anything," you whispered.

"Of course I do. I've studied you. Every smile. Every tear. I've learned you better than you know yourself."

He folded his newspaper carefully, set it aside, and locked eyes with you across the table.

"I love you."

The words landed like a net—sticky, binding, false.

You backed away instinctively, heart thudding. But the kitchen led only to the living room, which led to the porch, and beyond that, the neighborhood. Smiling neighbors. Waving hands. Dead eyes. A black-and-white police cruiser gliding past slowly, as if patrolling a dollhouse.

Footsteps. Walter rose and followed.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, gently anchoring you.

"The first few days are disorienting. That's expected. But you'll settle in. The others did."

"Others?" you murmured

He leaned closer to your ear. The faint buzz returned—like a deep mechanical purr beneath his skin.

"You're not the first we brought here. But you're the one I wanted. You're going to be the perfect wife. I chose you.