The following morning, Andrew woke up feeling groggy, the echoes of his dream still lingering like a thick fog in his mind. He barely managed to wolf down a quick breakfast, grabbed his school bag, and shuffled off to school. It felt oddly familiar—like stepping into a chapter from a book he’d already read.

Andrew found himself back in Year Ten, sitting at his usual spot in the classroom, tucked away in the corner. His head felt heavy, as though the weight of the world—or perhaps just that dream—was pressing down on him. He rubbed his temples absentmindedly, trying to will away the dull ache.

It was history class, a subject he normally adored. Miss Holt, the no-nonsense teacher with a penchant for rattling off dates and names like a machine gun, handed out a test. “Right then, class,” she announced, her voice clipped, “you’ve got one hour. Two questions to answer. Best foot forward, eh?”

Andrew glanced at the paper in front of him. The first question was straightforward—nothing he couldn’t handle. He set to work, his pen scratching across the page as he filled it with neat, thoughtful sentences. For a moment, it felt like a reprieve, a return to something steady and familiar.

But when he reached the second question, his mind went blank. He stared at the words, willing them to spark something—anything—but they just sat there, stubbornly refusing to yield. His headache throbbed harder, a dull drumbeat behind his eyes. He gritted his teeth, gripping his pen tightly, but still, nothing came.

The classroom buzzed with the quiet hum of his peers scribbling away furiously, but Andrew felt disconnected, as though he were watching it all from a distance. He shifted in his seat, glancing at the clock. The minutes ticked by far too quickly, and his page remained maddeningly empty.

“Five minutes left!” Miss Holt called out, her sharp tone slicing through the room like a blade.

Andrew swallowed hard, his palms clammy. He looked down at his paper, the blank space beneath the second question glaring up at him like an accusation. Normally, he’d be the first to hand in his work—history was his forte, after all. But today, he couldn’t muster a single sentence.

The bell rang, and the class began shuffling to the front to hand in their papers. Andrew stayed in his seat, his head bowed, gripping the desk so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“Andrew?” Miss Holt’s voice softened as she approached his desk. “Your paper?”

He shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t finish it. I—” He broke off, unable to explain.

Miss Holt pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s not like you,” she said, a trace of concern creeping into her tone.

Andrew shrugged, not trusting himself to reply. As the classroom emptied, the absence of chatter felt almost deafening. His gaze drifted to Jenny’s seat. It was empty, too. She hadn’t come to school today.

That absence sat with him, heavier than the unfinished test, heavier than the pounding in his skull. Something was amiss, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Jenny—his lovely, lively Jenny—wasn’t there, and that simple fact felt all wrong.

The history class eventually came to an end. With a reluctant sigh, Andrew handed in his paper—unfinished, incomplete, whatever it was. He didn’t even glance at Miss Holt as he slid it onto her desk and shuffled out of the room.

The world outside the classroom was no better—a cold, grey day, the kind where even the sun’s rays seemed too defeated to break through the dirty windows. Everything felt muted, like someone had turned the volume of life down to a whisper.

Andrew wandered through the school halls, moving from one class to another: English, Literature, German, Chemistry, Physics, Geography. Each subject passed in a monotonous blur, the hours dragging on yet somehow slipping past like sand through his fingers.

But it wasn’t just the dull routine of the day that unsettled him. It was the strange, nagging familiarity of it all. Every word the teachers said, every question they asked, every task they assigned—it was as though he’d already lived it. He knew exactly what Miss Frenky, the Geography teacher, would say before she even opened her mouth.

In Geography, Miss Frenky was in her usual animated form, waving her arms dramatically as she introduced the day's lesson. But, as was her habit, she couldn’t resist veering off-topic to share one of her personal anecdotes.

“Now, before we dive into river systems, let me tell you what my little niece got up to this weekend,” she began, her eyes sparkling with delight. “She’s six, you know, and already a proper little madam. Bright as a button, but cheeky as anything!”

Andrew could already hear the punchline in his head, but he stayed silent, watching the rest of the class lean in with anticipation.

“So,” Miss Frenky continued, “there she was, watching me as I was marking papers. She tugs at my sleeve and says, ‘Auntie, why are you always so grumpy when you do your work?’”

The class snickered, but Miss Frenky held up her hand, a mischievous grin on her face. “Oh, it gets better! I said to her, ‘Well, darling, it’s because marking papers is very hard work.’ And do you know what the little rascal said next?”

The students shook their heads, hanging on her words.

“She put her hands on her hips and said, ‘Maybe you should get a real job, like a bus driver or an ice cream lady. They look much happier!’”

The classroom erupted with laughter, a ripple of mirth that filled the air. Even Andrew, despite the heavy fog in his mind, let out a small chuckle. Miss Frenky pretended to look offended, but her eyes betrayed her amusement.

“Can you believe it?” she said, shaking her head. “Six years old and already telling me how to live my life!”

The laughter slowly died down as she transitioned back into the lesson, but the warmth lingered. For a brief moment, the day felt lighter, and Andrew couldn’t help but notice how alive the room seemed with Jenny’s absence—her laugh would’ve been the loudest of them all. Still, the small smile on his face quickly faded, the weight of the day pressing back down on him.

In Chemistry, Mr. Calloway’s stern gaze swept the room, sharp and critical as ever. Andrew knew the exact moment it would land on him, the subtle narrowing of the teacher’s eyes, the unspoken challenge in the silence. He sat through it all, knowing every answer, every reaction, and yet feeling no satisfaction in his certainty.

It was maddening. The déjà vu was too precise, too vivid, as if he were trapped in a replay of the day. Everything was predictable—everything except one glaring absence.

Jenny.

She wasn’t there, and he couldn’t stop noticing it. Her empty desk in every class was a constant, gnawing reminder. The usual buzz of her presence—the lively, radiant energy she carried—was missing, leaving a hollow space in its wake.

By the end of the day, Andrew found himself asking the same question over and over: Why? Why was he living this day again? Why was it so eerily ordinary, so unremarkable? Why did it feel as though something monumental was hidden beneath the surface of this seemingly trivial repetition?

He leaned against the cold metal of his locker, staring down at his shoes. Nothing had happened. Nothing special. But why, then, did it feel as though everything depended on this grey, uneventful day?

The classes were finally over, and Andrew stepped out of the school gates into the cold, grey afternoon. The sky was still a flat expanse of dullness, the air biting and heavy, but the snow that had blanketed the ground only days before was gone. In its place was a chill dampness that seemed to cling to everything, making even the most familiar streets feel bleak and unwelcoming.

Andrew pulled his scarf tighter around his neck as he trudged along the pavement, lost in his thoughts. The day had left him drained, and the empty space where Jenny should have been weighed on him like a stone in his chest.

As he rounded a corner, the sound of animated voices broke through his gloom. Two boys from his school—Charlie, the class clown, and his mate Liam—were walking a few paces ahead. Charlie’s voice was loud, carrying easily in the quiet afternoon air.

“I swear, mate,” Charlie was saying, barely able to contain his laughter, “it was the funniest thing you’d ever see!”

“What was?” Liam asked, grinning already, as though anticipating the punchline.

Charlie clapped him on the back, nearly doubling over with laughter as he tried to recount the story. “Alright, so we’re at footie practice, yeah? And Danny—big, tough Danny—he’s in goal. Thinks he’s the next Peter Schmeichel or something. Anyway, the coach says we’re doing penalties, so everyone’s lining up to take a shot.”

Andrew’s pace slowed as he listened, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

“So, it’s my turn,” Charlie continued, puffing out his chest dramatically. “And I’m thinking, ‘Right, Charlie, this is your moment to shine.’ I line up the shot, run at the ball—and I absolutely *whiff* it.”

Liam snorted, but Charlie held up a hand, his grin widening. “Wait, wait, it gets better. The ball goes flying—*straight up in the air*—and Danny’s there in goal, watching it like he’s tracking a UFO. And then, as it’s coming down…” He paused for effect, barely able to keep from laughing.

“What?” Liam prompted, his curiosity piqued.

“It smacks him right on the head!” Charlie exclaimed, miming the impact with a dramatic clap. “But not just any smack—proper cartoon style. He goes *down* like a sack of spuds, sprawled out on the ground, and the ball rolls right into the net!”

Liam burst out laughing, doubling over as he clutched his stomach. “No way!” he gasped.

“I swear on my nan’s life!” Charlie said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Coach was trying so hard not to laugh, but even he couldn’t hold it in. Poor Danny gets up all dazed, rubbing his head, and says, ‘Did I save it?’”

The two boys dissolved into hysterics, their laughter ringing out in the cool air. Even Andrew couldn’t help but smile, a small chuckle escaping his lips. The image of big, tough Danny toppled by his own teammate’s failed penalty was too good not to picture.

For a brief moment, the grey afternoon didn’t seem quite so heavy. The sound of their laughter warmed the cold air, reminding Andrew that even in the most ordinary of days, there were moments of lightness to be found.

As the boys turned down another street, their voices fading into the distance, Andrew continued on his way, his steps just a little lighter than before.

Andrew returned home to a sight that felt like stepping into a warm memory. The house wasn’t the cold, empty place he had grown used to—it was alive, familiar in a way that tugged at his heart. The scent of home-cooked food wafted through the air, a comforting reminder of simpler times. There was no newspaper on the table proclaiming Jenny’s death, and no haunting silence broken only by the whisper of his own thoughts.

Instead, his mother was bustling about in the kitchen, her face lighting up when he walked through the door. “Andrew, you’re back! Just in time—I’ve made your favourite,” she called, motioning towards the table where lunch was set. The warmth of the room was inviting, the kind of welcome he hadn’t felt in what seemed like ages.

Andrew shrugged off his bag and stepped inside, the cosy hum of life enveloping him. The fireplace crackled with life, casting a golden glow that danced across the room.

His father was there too, seated in his usual spot with a book in hand. He looked up as Andrew entered, raising an eyebrow with his characteristic curiosity. “Well then, son, how was school today?”

Andrew hesitated for the briefest moment before answering. “It was fine,” he said casually, dropping his bag by the door. “Just a usual dull school day.”

“Ah, school days—hardly ever exciting, eh?” his father replied with a chuckle, setting his book aside.

Before Andrew could say more, a warm, weathered hand ruffled his hair. It was his grand master, the familiar presence of wisdom and kindness who had always been a constant in his life. “Come on now, lad, let’s not keep your mother waiting. Lunch is ready,” he said, his voice a soothing baritone that carried a touch of playfulness.

Andrew nodded, letting himself be guided to the table. It all felt so natural, so ordinary—yet, somewhere deep inside, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been here before. Everything was just as it should be: his father’s steady questions, his mother’s bustling warmth, and the fire’s gentle crackle.

And then it struck him. Of course, Jenny wasn’t there. She didn’t belong to this part of his life. In this moment, she was still just a stranger, a name he didn’t yet know, a face he hadn’t yet memorised. This was a day from before—a fragment of his life untouched by her presence.

As he sat down at the table, his mother placing a steaming plate of his favourite dish before him, Andrew felt the surreal weight of the moment. He had lived this day before, every detail etched in his memory like a well-worn story. But now, he was aware of it, as though seeing it through a lens that blurred the line between past and present.

For now, though, he chose to let the familiarity wash over him. He picked up his fork and took a bite, savouring the comforting taste of home. Whatever this was—memory, dream, or something else entirely—it was a reprieve from the cold greyness of the day outside.