When I pushed open the front door, Christmas dinner had just been set on the table. Mom poked her head out from the kitchen: “Is Claire home? Go wash your hands, we’re about to eat!” Dad sat in his usual spot, clutching the TV remote in his hand. Everything was exactly the same as the past twenty-six Christmas Eves. Until I went to the bathroom to wash my hands. Thirty seconds. I was only gone for thirty seconds. When I came back, a strange man was sitting in Dad’s seat. A strange woman walked out of the kitchen carrying a soup bowl, her hair styled in trendy curls. It was still the same elm wood dining table, the same dishes, even the tableware hadn’t moved. But the people eating—they had all changed. Seven strangers, sitting around my family’s dining table, eating my family’s Christmas dinner. “Who are you people? Where are my parents!” My voice was shaking. All seven of them looked up at once. The white-haired old man in the head seat put down his fork: “Miss, who are you looking for?” “This is my house!” The curly-haired woman laughed first: “Miss, you must have the wrong place. This is our home.” “That’s impossible!” I pointed at the table. “This table has a burn mark on the lower left corner. I made it when I was seven.” Everyone looked down. The burn mark was indeed there. “Coincidence.” The curly-haired woman said. I pointed at the ceramic bowl: “This soup bowl has my name carved on the bottom—Claire . I carved it when I was ten.” They didn’t touch the bowl, but their expressions changed. The white-haired old man stood up: “Miss, I don’t know how you know these things, but this really is our home. My name is Robert Williams, this is my son James, his wife Sarah, and their children…” I didn’t answer. I turned and rushed into the inner room. My bedroom door was open, but inside it had become a children’s room. Family photos of strangers hung on the wall—the seven people currently at the dining table. James stood up: “Dad, what’s going on?” I finally broke down: “I should be asking you that! Thirty seconds ago when I came in, this was my parents’ house! Thirty seconds later, it became yours! The food hasn’t changed, the table hasn’t changed—where are the people? Where are my parents?” Sarah’s face turned pale: “Miss, are you… having hallucinations? We’ve been preparing dinner since this afternoon…” “Hallucinations?” I dragged over my suitcase, opened it, and pulled out a photo frame. The frame held a picture of me and my parents, taken last Christmas in this same living room. The photo was passed around among the seven people. James’s voice came out dry: “This photo… it’s photoshopped, right?” “I have videos on my phone too!” I patted my pockets. Strange, where was my phone? “Is that phone on the shoe cabinet by the entrance yours?” Sarah spoke up to remind me. I looked at her suspiciously, then found my phone where she said. I opened my recent files. It was a screen recording of a video call with Mom from ten days ago, the background identical down to the smallest detail. But halfway through the video, Mom’s image suddenly distorted. Amid the buzzing static, Mom’s face shook and warped, then transformed into Sarah’s face. Sarah in the video smiled at the camera: “Claire honey, when are you coming home for the holidays?” The phone clattered to the floor. By the time I picked it up, the video had returned to normal. From beginning to end, it was my mother. “What’s going on!” I jerked my head up. “Did you tamper with the video when I wasn’t paying attention!” Robert sighed: “Miss, if you can’t even tell what’s real in your own phone videos, I suggest you go to the hospital and get your head checked. Stop making a scene.” “I’m not making a scene! You’ve been planning this all along, haven’t you!” James’s face darkened: “If you keep talking nonsense, I’m calling the police.” “Go ahead! Let the police come see whose house this really is!” James really did call the police. During the twenty-minute wait, we remained at an impasse. The Williams family continued eating, though half-heartedly. I sat on my suitcase, staring intently at them, at this house. That door leading to the balcony—the paint had chipped off the lower right corner when I crashed into it with my tricycle as a child. The clock on the wall was the Roman numeral style Dad loved. Even the smell in the air was exactly the same as in my memories. How could this not be my home? The police finally arrived—one older, one younger. The older officer showed his badge. His name was Officer Mitchell. After hearing both our accounts, he frowned deeply. “You say this is your home. Do you have proof?” I pulled out property documents: “The homeowners are David and Linda—my parents.” Officer Mitchell looked them over, then turned to Robert: “And yours?” Robert produced property documents. Officer Mitchell compared the two documents, his frown deepening.
“They’re both real. Same address, same number, but different owner names. Issue date… both July 15, 2005.” “That’s impossible!” James and I said simultaneously. “See for yourself.” It was true. The certificate numbers were identical. The younger officer ran a search. Half a minute later, he looked up with a confused expression: “The system shows the owner is Robert Williams. David … no record found.” “What do you mean no record found!” I grabbed the police tablet. In the search results, both David and Linda ‘s names were followed by red exclamation marks displaying [DATA DOES NOT EXIST]. Officer Mitchell wiped his brow: “Miss, did you get the address wrong?” “I grew up here! I remember every single scratch on these walls!” I rushed to the TV cabinet and yanked open the bottom drawer with force: “Look! There’s a hidden compartment here—it’s where my dad used to hide money!” The drawer opened. The compartment was still there, but it was empty. James’s voice was calm: “This girl’s mental state might not be quite right. It’s Christmas, we don’t want to make things difficult for her, but she’s disrupting our holiday.” Officer Mitchell looked at me: “Miss, why don’t you find somewhere else to stay. After the holidays…” I interrupted: “I’m not leaving. This is my parents’ house. I have to be here tonight! Who knows where they’ll take my parents if I leave!” Sarah screamed: “What are you talking about!” Just then, Officer Mitchell’s phone rang. He answered and walked outside. Through the glass, I could see him nodding continuously, his expression growing more serious. Two minutes later he came back in: “I just received notification that David and Linda are involved in a financial dispute and fled the country this afternoon. This house… was mortgaged to Mr. Williams last month.” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning: “That’s impossible! I talked to them on the phone this morning!” “You can check the immigration records.” Officer Mitchell handed me his phone. On the screen were two familiar photos. Mom and Dad’s passport information. Departure time: 3 PM today. Destination: Cambodia. “This has to be fake!” I shouted. “Why would they run? They’ve always lived honest lives—where would a financial dispute come from?” “That requires further investigation. But right now, the house does belong to the Williams family. If you keep causing trouble, we’ll have to take you in for disturbing the peace.” “The evidence is conclusive.” Officer Mitchell put away his phone. “please leave.” I had no choice but to be forced out of what used to be my home. Late at night, I bought bread at a convenience store and sat on the sidewalk eating it. I called my parents several times. Each call went to [TEMPORARILY UNAVAILABLE]. “Mom, Dad, where did you go! I clearly saw you before I washed my hands for dinner!” Thinking about this, my tears stubbornly fell to the ground. In my phone gallery, I flipped through photos of my parents one by one. Last year’s birthday—Mom making me dinner while Dad snuck bites of cake. Family mountain hike—Dad panting from exhaustion while Mom laughed at his lack of exercise. Our chat messages stopped yesterday afternoon. Mom had written: [Dinner’s ready, just waiting for you to come home and eat.] Dad sent a cash gift: [For my girl to buy snacks.] Dad’s latest Instagram post was from three days ago, sharing a health article. Before that was last week’s photo of a gathering with old colleagues. He looked so happy. A relative had commented below: [Get together in a few days?] Dad replied: [Sure, once my daughter comes home we’ll all meet up.] That reply was timestamped yesterday at 4 PM. But the immigration records showed they’d already left the country at 3 PM today. All their social media accounts were updating normally, as if they were still somewhere living their ordinary lives. Except I couldn’t reach them. Except their home had been taken by strangers.
No, I won’t accept this! I stood up, dragging my suitcase, and knocked on the door next door. Mrs. Harper opened it—the woman who’d watched me grow up since childhood. “Mrs. Harper! It’s me, Claire!” I grabbed onto her like a drowning person clutching a life raft. “Something happened to my family! My parents are missing, and a group of strangers has taken over our house! Did you see my parents today? They…” “Claire? Are you confused? The house next door… that’s the Williams family. They’ve lived there for years.” I froze: “Mrs. Harper, what are you saying? That’s David ‘s house—my house! You came to borrow sugar from us last month, and my mom baked you cookies…” “That never happened!” Mrs. Harper suddenly raised her voice. “Young lady, don’t make things up! I don’t know any David !” With that, she slammed the door shut. I stood in the cold wind, chilled to the bone. I went to knock on other neighbors’ doors. The answers were all variations on the same theme: “Never heard of them.” “Miss, did you get the wrong address?” “That house has always been theirs. We all know them.” Just as I was losing all hope, I saw elderly Mrs. Murphy about to take out her trash. I rushed over and grabbed her hand: “Mrs. Murphy, you know my parents, right? Tell me where they went!” But Mrs. Murphy shook off my hand forcefully, quickly closed her door, and didn’t even take out the trash. I stood on the street, looking at door after door shut tight, and suddenly felt the whole world spinning. Could it be… I really did remember wrong? Could the parents I saw when I first came home just be my hallucination? I stumbled back to the front of the house. Through the glass window, I saw those seven people enjoying their meal harmoniously. The little girl pointed at something on TV and laughed. Sarah brought her fruit. Robert poured wine with a beaming smile. Everything looked so normal, so normal it was as if they’d been living here for twenty years. And I was like an intruder who didn’t belong, like a crazy person. No, wait—why am I starting to doubt myself? I shook my head, quickly pushing that thought away. Over the next two days, I haunted the area like a ghost. I checked into a small hotel and squatted across from the house before dawn every day, watching that door. On the morning of the third day, I blocked Sarah as she went out to buy breakfast. “Give me back my parents!” I stood in front of her, my eyes bloodshot. Sarah jumped, then composed herself: “Miss, why are you still here? Wasn’t what the police said clear enough?” “Those must have been fake police! You’re all definitely working together!” My voice was hoarse. “Tell me right now—where are my parents!” I grabbed her arm to keep her from leaving. Sarah shook me off forcefully and shouted loudly: “Help! A crazy person is attacking me!” Several neighbors out for morning exercise gathered around. Sarah pointed at me and said to everyone: “It’s this girl. On Christmas Eve she broke into our house claiming it was hers, saying I stole her parents! The police already came, and she’s still causing trouble!” The neighbors looked at me with suspicion, pity, but mostly the desire to keep their distance. “Looking at her, her mental state really isn’t right.” “Poor thing.” “Keep your distance, don’t get involved.” I looked at these familiar faces. The way they were looking at me now—like I was a stranger, a lunatic.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “355475”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #现实主义Realistic #浪漫Romance #重生Reborn
Leave a Reply