[Season 1. Chapter 12: The house from another world].
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The kitchen opens with a soft, welcoming brightness. Sunlight filters through a wide window above the sink, casting golden highlights across white marble countertops and polished wood cabinets.
The air carries the faint scent of vanilla and warm toast. Copper pans hang neatly from a rack above the stove, and a bowl of fresh fruit rests on the counter.
Everything is clean, lived-in but cared for, with a small calendar pinned beside the fridge—covered in hand-drawn doodles and glittery stickers clearly placed by Lyra.
The living room flows gently from the kitchen, with cushioned sofas in soft gray and cream gathered around a coffee table that holds a vase of flowers and a few open picture books.
Lyra's touch is everywhere: a plush unicorn perched on the arm of the couch, building blocks arranged in tidy color-coded towers beneath the window, and a dollhouse placed carefully near the corner with every room meticulously furnished.
A soft, round playmat lies in the center of the room, surrounded by neatly arranged rows of stuffed animals—like an audience watching over Lyra's world. Everything is cozy, calm, and full of quiet joy.
Beyond the sliding glass doors lies the back garden, where the grass is lush and slightly overgrown at the edges, swaying gently in the breeze.
A swing hangs from a strong old tree, its ropes worn smooth from years of use.
Flower beds border the fence, some planted in careful lines, others sprinkled with wild daisies—Lyra's "fairy flowers." A small wooden playhouse sits beneath the tree, painted pale yellow with white trim, and inside are tiny tea cups, toy plates, and chairs set in a perfect circle for invisible guests.
Garden stepping stones—some hand-painted by Lyra herself—lead around the space like a quiet trail of mystic vibe.
Though toys are tucked in every corner of the house and garden, they're not scattered in chaos—they're placed with care, as if Lyra has made friends of them all and knows exactly where each one belongs.
Her presence turns the house into a home—a warm, breathing story of imagination, laughter, and love.
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Oliver wandered through the house slowly, his small feet barely making a sound against the warm wooden floors. The home felt lived-in—not pristine, not sterile, but cared for. There was a certain charm to it, a simplicity that soothed his overstimulated mind.
The walls were painted a soft cream, with shelves neatly lined with framed photos, trinkets, and well-worn books.
A whiff of lavender lingered faintly in the air, likely from the half-burned candle on the entry table beside a carved wooden turtle figurine. The sunlight spilled gently through linen curtains, casting soft, golden patterns on the carpet.
In the living room, there was a sturdy couch with a woven blanket draped over the back, clearly handmade.
A modest television sat on a low stand—not a flashy, ultra-thin model, but something humble and functional. Next to it was a stack of DVDs—some animated films, a few dramas, and even a documentary about ocean life.
The kitchen was tidy, with polished countertops and a humming refrigerator covered in magnets—some shaped like planets, others like fruits.
A calendar hung nearby, with handwritten notes and reminders: "Lyra's tutoring - Thurs @ 3pm", "Grocery day", "Repair for backyard light?"
As Oliver passed by a hallway mirror, he caught a glimpse of his younger self again—this child version of him in the black-and-white sweater and shorts, tousled brown hair, wide eyes filled with thought.
The reflection lingered with him. He didn't look like a stranger. He looked... possible.
Every room whispered routine and warmth. It was a stark contrast to his cramped, overheated apartment back on Earth. This place wasn't too luxurious like top tier housing. But it felt safe and pretty nice.
So this is where I am now, he thought. A clean start in a clean house.
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As Liam walked through the front door with another box in his arms, Martha followed behind him, holding a stack of neatly folded towels.
The scent of warm cardboard and fresh linen filled the air. They moved with the rhythm of people who'd done this before—an easy flow between them, placing things in their proper places without words.
Oliver stood by the hallway, small hands at his sides, silently watching. Then came a sudden jingle of tags—collar metal lightly clinking—followed by heavy paws padding across the floor. A large golden retriever turned the corner and spotted Oliver.
The dog's tail wagged in sweeping arcs, tongue out, eyes bright and gentle. It let out a quiet, friendly huff before approaching, sniffing Oliver with careful curiosity.
Oliver stiffened at first. He'd never had a dog back on Earth. Just his mom's black cat, Pepper—moody, quiet, independent, like he used to be.
Dogs were always something he'd only seen at a distance. This one, though, felt... welcoming.
The retriever nudged its nose against Oliver's small hand.
"That's Comet," Martha said, smiling as she set the towels down. "He's sweet. Big goofball, really."
Liam knelt beside the dog, ruffling its fur. "Protective too, though. He'll like you once he knows you."
Oliver hesitated, then let his fingers brush through the thick fur along Comet's head. It was warm. Alive. Present. The dog leaned into it, tail thumping gently on the floor.
He didn't say anything, but his lips twitched—barely—a flicker of something soft behind his guarded expression.
He'd never had a dog. But maybe now... maybe he did.
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Oliver crouched down slowly, his small knees pressing into the soft rug as he approached Comet with the cautious quiet of someone who wasn't used to being close to anything that big or that eager.
His little hand, still unsure, hovered just above Comet's golden head. The dog looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes and gave a small wag of his tail, as if to say it's okay, take your time.
Oliver finally lowered his hand and touched the dog's head—lightly, then a little firmer, fingers gently brushing through the thick golden fur behind the ears.
The warmth of the dog surprised him, as did the gentle way Comet stayed still, leaning in just enough to show trust without crowding him.
He kept petting in small, measured strokes. Always careful. Always calculating.
Comet shifted slightly, giving a contented huff and thumping his tail on the floor. The dog's steady breathing grounded Oliver—made the room feel quieter, more real somehow.
Oliver didn't say anything. But for the first time since arriving in this strange, second life, he didn't feel like he had to.
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Lyra marched down the hall with a box in both arms, her steps quick and sure. The box was scribbled over with marker drawings—rainbows, stars, and her name in looping bold letters.
Bits of tape peeled at the corners. Inside were half-opened tubes of paint, crumpled sketch pages, and brushes with dried acrylic hardened at the bristles.
The smell of glue and poster board followed her like a trailing shadow.
She pushed open the door to her room with her shoulder and kicked it wider with her foot. The room inside bloomed with her personality—walls painted in two bold tones: crimson red and deep magenta, both meeting in jagged diagonal strokes like a thunderclap frozen on drywall. Stickers of fantasy creatures and space decals were scattered across the surfaces.
A laptop hummed quietly on her desk, its lid covered in cat and moon stickers, surrounded by tangled wires and adapters like a metallic nest.
Several of the wires trailed off the edge and disappeared beneath the desk, connected to a set of digital drawing pads and what looked like an unfinished robot made from plastic kits and hot glue.
She dropped the box onto her bed, a messy fortress of red pillows and fleece blankets, and then turned slightly—glancing over her shoulder. Her red hair bounced with the motion.
"Hey, Ugly," she called out again—less hostility this time, more habitual. "Don't touch my stuff."
Then she disappeared into her room, door left ajar, the scent of marker ink and craft glue lingering in the air like the residue of her world.
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Oliver lingered in the hallway for a moment, his small frame quiet in the space between the rooms. He looked around—unsure, a flicker of weight behind his eyes. Everyone seemed to be moving with a purpose: Martha in the kitchen humming a tune, Liam carrying boxes and checking the thermostat, Lyra already immersed in her world of art and wires.
And then there was Comet.
The golden retriever padded softly ahead, tail swaying with a calm rhythm, glancing back now and then as if inviting Oliver to follow. With a hesitant step, Oliver did.
They passed the open living room, the soft hum of an old ceiling fan stirring the air, and turned into a narrow hall leading to a small sunroom. Sunlight poured in through the slanted windows, filtered by the trees outside, casting flickering green shadows across the tiled floor.
Comet walked over to a corner where a worn blanket lay, scratched at it once, then flopped down with a lazy exhale. His eyes met Oliver's briefly—patient and content.
Oliver stood there, arms slightly away from his sides, uncertain.
He looked around the room. It was peaceful. Quiet. The wind outside gently rattled the windows. Somewhere, a lawn mower buzzed in the distance. It was so different from the chaotic, heavy rhythm of his life before.
Oliver sat down near Comet, not too close, just enough. The dog shifted slightly but didn't move away. And for a moment, Oliver didn't think about what he was supposed to do. He just listened—to the wind, the leaves, Comet's breathing.
Maybe he'd figure things out tomorrow.