He woke up slowly, as though surfacing from the bottom of a dark, heavy well. There wasn't a single sharp moment where dream broke into wakefulness—just a long, dragging rise through thick, murky layers. Sounds came first, but they were faint and strange. No car horns, no pressure cooker whistles from the kitchen, no distant neighbors yelling. Just... wind. Birds. Something tapping, somewhere, like wood gently knocking against wood.
He blinked into the dimness.
The ceiling looked like it belonged in a museum. Beams of dark wood arched overhead, heavy and old, the kind of wood that had seen stories. Between them was plaster, pale but cracked, stained with tiny brown marks like age spots on an old hand. The smell in the air wasn't disinfectant or detergent—no scent of lemon floor cleaner or cheap room freshener. It was raw, dry wood, a trace of coal smoke, and something faintly metallic.
He didn't know where he was.
He sat up suddenly.
The bed creaked under him—a deep, aching noise that felt too loud. His heart pounded. His arms, when he looked down at them, were wrong. The skin was lighter, the hands larger. He moved them slowly, watched the fingers curl and uncurl like they belonged to someone else.
He stumbled to the side of the bed. Cold wooden floors under his feet. He staggered to a mirror set above a worn dresser. The face looking back wasn't his.
Not the face he'd known since he was a kid.
The boy in the mirror had soft brown curls that curled up near the ears and temple. His eyes were blue—startling, wide, and bloodshot. Pale skin. A faint scar near the chin. He raised his hand. The boy in the mirror did too.
He leaned in. He could see pores. Eyelashes. A tiny freckle under the left eye.
"Who… who…"
His throat was dry.
The panic didn't hit like a truck—it bled in, slow and invasive. He turned around sharply. The room swam. He grabbed the edge of the dresser, breathing fast.
This was not his room. The dresser was carved, heavy. There was a rug that had probably once been bright, now dulled with time. The window had thick curtains tied neatly, sunlight barely filtering through. Beside the bed was a small table with a ceramic lamp. There were no wires. No plug points.
He opened drawers. Socks. Starched shirts. A box of cufflinks with monograms.
JC.
He opened a small writing desk in the corner. Papers, stacked carefully. A fountain pen. Notebooks with neat, slanted handwriting. Books—leather-bound. He pulled one out and flipped through. No dates he recognized.
A name, finally, on the inside of a book cover:
Jack Alastair Colburn
Jack. That was… him? Now?
He shook his head. No, no, no.
He dropped to the floor, crawling to a trunk at the foot of the bed. Opened it. More books. A pair of riding boots. A belt with a polished brass buckle. Letters—some tied in a ribbon. He tugged one out.
"Dearest Jack, We look forward to your visit come spring. Your auntie is quite insistent that you bring your fiddle..."
He couldn't read more. He shoved the letter back and slammed the lid.
Tears blurred his eyes. His chest heaved.
He wasn't home.
He wasn't himself.
What had happened? Was he dead?
Yes.
The thought came so suddenly and clearly it rang like a bell.
He remembered the pain. A squeezing, crushing pain in his chest. Sitting on the floor, clutching his shirt. His phone slipping out of his fingers. His heart had given out. In Ranchi. In his small home, with its plastic tablecloth, his little sister watching cartoons. He'd died.
And now—this.
His head throbbed.
He pressed his forehead to the edge of the bed and cried. Slow, shaky sobs that hurt his ribs. He missed his mother's voice. His father's silence. His noisy neighbors. The posters on his wall. The feel of the tiled floor under his bare feet.
There was a soft knock.
"Master Jack?"
The voice was male. Deep. British.
"Breakfast is ready, sir."
He froze.
What should he do? What was he supposed to say?
His mouth opened, then shut. His heart raced. The voice wasn't angry—it was polite, neutral—but the sound of it made him feel like a criminal. A fake. He sat motionless, staring at the door.
If he didn't respond—would they come in? Would they knock again? Would they think something was wrong?
He pressed his hand to his mouth, willing himself not to cry again. No time. No space.
You can't just stay in here, he thought wildly. They'll expect you to come. Jack would come.
But if he did go… what then?
They knew Jack. The real Jack. They'd know something was off. They'd notice something—how he walked, how he looked at people. The wrong twitch in the eye, the wrong hand holding the fork.
His stomach churned.
They'd look at him and see. They'd whisper. Wonder. Then someone would say it out loud—"You're not Jack."
What would happen then?
He paced the room. Tried to calm his breathing. His hands were trembling. He went to the washstand. Splash. Cold water. Face. Neck. Again. He gripped the sides of the porcelain basin and looked at himself in the mirror. He was breathing like he'd just run a mile.
He had to go.
He had to pretend.
He had to be Jack.
He dressed slowly, clumsily, fumbling buttons and mismatching socks. The trousers felt stiff, the vest tight around his ribs. Everything was wrong.
He tiptoed to the door, hand hovering over the handle. Held his breath.
Then opened it.
The hallway outside was empty.
He descended the stairs, heart hammering in his chest.
The dining room smelled like toast and coffee. The table was already half-full.
He stood still in the doorway for a second, his eyes darting.
Who were they?
There was a man at the head of the table. Broad-shouldered, grey-haired, upright posture. Father? Someone important.
A leaner man next to him with a crooked grin and brighter eyes—maybe an uncle.
Three girls, three boys. One of the girls looked older. One boy seemed about little bit younger him. Two boys look similar age look barely past 10 and last girl who is the youngest.
He sat down slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible.
"Morning, Jack," the man at the head said.
That confirmed it. He's the father.
"Morning," he mumbled.
He tried to catch names as they spoke.
The older girl spoke first. "Lucy, stop poking your beans with a fork like that. You'll spill them."
"Don't boss me, Eleanor," said the wild-haired girl with freckles.
Eleanor. Lucy.
"I'll poke them if I want to. They look like beetles."
"Thomas, will you pass the jam?" said the boy with the bigger eyes and younger face.
"No, I got it first," said the shorter boy. "Ask Edmund."
Thomas. Edmund.
"Don't fight," said the uncle-looking man, reaching over with a laugh. "Here, Thomas. Edmund's busy buttering his toast."
So he is Uncle. Maybe Henry?
"Thank you, Uncle Henry," Thomas said.
Yes. Uncle Henry.
"Father, may I go riding after breakfast?" asked Edmund.
"You'll help Henry with the stables first," said the older man—their father, then. Major Colburn, perhaps?
"Yes, Father."
Major Colburn. Uncle Henry. Eleanor. Lucy. Edmund. Thomas.
He tucked the names into the back of his head like loose change.
Now he had something to go by.
But the fear stayed. What if he messed up? What if they noticed a second too long of hesitation? A wrong nickname? A forgotten joke?
They were talking again—something about riding lessons, someone losing a boot in the mud. Lucy giggled. Edmund rolled his eyes. Thomas was trying to balance a spoon on his nose.
"Thomas, behave," said Eleanor, flicking his ear.
"They're just spoons," he protested.
"And that's still your face," she said with a smirk.
Laughter.
He forced a smile.
He tried to eat, but his throat was tight. He picked at the food.
Eleanor the oldest asked the two most silent siblings "Ben, Martha have you finished your school work"
"I finis'ed my school wowk 'fore Ben did! Ha-ha" the youngest replied.
Then, as the chatter resumed, he couldn't take it anymore. The laughter, the closeness—it wasn't his.
He didn't belong.
He just sat there.
Breathless.
Alone.
Still not Jack.
"Have you given more thought to college, Jack?"
The question was like a bullet ran through his heart, it carried weight. Like a beam settling in an old house.
Jack didn't answer. He lifted his teacup, hands steady only because he willed them to be. His ears were hot.
"You've choices," the Major went on. "Better ones than most boys your age. You've earned them. And we still have friends in good places, whatever people think."
Jack kept his gaze on the table. His tea was lukewarm now.
"I won't have you throw away your future as you all think that we can't afford and accept scholarship which from those places that doesn't gives you better prospects," he added. "We are not beggars yet."
No response.
"I will sell the pocket watch," the Major said after a beat. "My father gave it to me when I became lord of this house. It means something—but not more than your education."
Silence.
The room fell silent for a beat, the clinking of forks and knives dying down as the reality of his words settled in.
"You've worked hard for this," his father added. "And you deserve the best. If I can help, I will."
Then a chair scraped.
"No need for that."
It was Uncle Henry. His voice was low, controlled, but carried a bitter edge. "Don't sell it, Richard. Don't sell the damn watch. We've sold enough. Every small thing that held meaning. The silver. The piano. Even the damn falcon painting. It's all we have left of our father"
There was a brief pause, the tension thickening.
"We can't just keep pretending nothing's wrong," Major Colburn replied, his voice tinged with frustration. "We have to make sacrifices. The pocket watch is the only thing left that could make a real difference."
Jack's eyes lifted—just briefly.
"I'm putting Valkyrie in auction," Henry said. "Houston. Next week."
Henry snapped, his voice rising. "She's already worth more than any of us, and at least I can get something for her. It's just a damn horse. She's got no foal anymore, anyway."
Lucy, who had been listening quietly, blinked, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. "Valkyrie?" she asked softly, eyes wide. "You can't be serious, Uncle. Not her."
The words seemed to hang in the air. The rest of the family exchanged glances, some nodding reluctantly while others looked unsure.
Henry's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "She's just a horse, Lucy. We don't have the luxury of sentiment anymore."
But Lucy wasn't ready to let it go. "But you—you love her, Uncle. You loved her. She was one of the few things you held onto after the war..."
Henry's face hardened. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping back loudly against the floor, sending a ripple of tension through the room. "Enough," he growled. "Don't say another word. I'm doing what needs to be done."
The rest of the room sat in heavy silence, the weight of Henry's words hanging over them.
Then Jack—still standing, his mind racing—made a swift decision.
He couldn't stay in this room. Not now. Not when everything was spiraling out of control.
Without a word, he left the table. His legs were shaky, but he forced himself to walk quickly, his steps echoing as he left the room. He didn't dare look back.
---
Downstairs, the silence was almost unbearable.
Margaret's eyes were wide as she looked at Henry. "Dear," she whispered, voice trembling. "You can't just sell her. You can't. You already let so much go."
"Don't question me, Margaret," Henry snapped, his voice hard. "You have no idea what it's like to be in my position. None of you do."
Edmund, who had been sitting quietly, looked up from his plate. "But Valkyrie was... more than a horse to you, Uncle. You said it yourself."
"I said a lot of things," Henry muttered. "And now, I'm saying something different."
There was a long pause before Major Colburn sighed, his face weary. "Let him go. He's right. If it comes to it, we'll sell the horse."
"But she was father's last gift to you," Lucy said, her voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to provoke her uncle further.
Henry's gaze flicked to her, his eyes cold. "And now she's a means to an end. Understand that. We can't keep pretending everything will just work itself out. We need money, and I'm doing what I can to make sure Jack's future isn't lost."
With that, Henry turned on his heel and walked briskly out of the room, leaving the family to sit in the heavy silence he'd created.
---
Upstairs, Jack sat on the edge of his bed, trying to breathe through the whirlwind of thoughts racing in his head. It was all too much. The pressure, the loss, the fear of what was coming next. Everything felt wrong. Everything felt foreign.