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Summary
Charles wakes up alive in his childhood bed. He can't remember very much, but nothing seems quite right.
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"You're silly, darling," she says as she shakes her head.
"No, I'm serious, mum." He shifts on the hard surface of the wooden chair, furrowing his brows. He can feel something inside his chest-- like a solid mass. He presses a hand over it, surprised to find himself surprised at the way he can feel his own shirt, all the fibres and the texture of the cotton. "Have you ever cooked me brekkie before?"
She turns towards him, a half-smile on her face. "Charles, I cook you breakfast every day. What's gotten into you?"
He laughs it off, because she’s right. If she’s telling the truth-- and he can't imagine why she wouldn't be-- then it was, quite frankly, a ridiculous fucking thing to ask. "I--... Yeah, yeah... You're right. I'm sorry." For a reason beyond himself, he feels apologetic.
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