Author's Preface
Morning arrived not with peace but with panic.
Clara bolted upright in bed, a sharp gasp tearing from her lungs before she could stop it. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs.
For a few disoriented seconds, she simply sat there, breathing hard, her fingers clutching the blanket beneath her as fragments of the previous night crashed into her all at once.
The lounge. The kiss. His hands around her waist. His gray eyes. The warmth of his breath. The way she had...
"Oh my God..." Heat flooded her face so quickly that she buried both hands against her burning cheeks. "What did I do?" Her voice came out as nothing more than a horrified whisper.
She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing desperately wishing that when she opened them again, she would be back in her old apartment. Back to her familiar bed, to her quiet life. Back to being sixty.
Slowly... Almost fearfully... She looked down at herself.
Smooth skin. Slender arms. She lifted one trembling hand to her face. No big wrinkles yet. No age spots.
Her fingers slipped through the long black hair resting over her shoulders. Still soft. Still thick. Still young.
"No..."
She threw the blanket aside and hurried toward the full-length mirror standing beside the wardrobe. The reflection waiting for her stole her breath. Twenty-seven.
Exactly as she had been yesterday. Exactly as she had been before everything impossible began. She stared at herself for what felt like forever. "This isn't happening..." Her voice cracked.
Her breathing became uneven again as she slowly turned, taking in the unfamiliar bedroom around her. The pale wooden furniture. The framed photographs. The neatly folded clothes were resting on the chair near the window. None of it belonged to the life she remembered.
A cold knot settled in her stomach. "I'm... still here." The realization landed with terrifying finality. This wasn't a dream. Or if it was...
Why hadn't she woken up?
Panic began creeping in. If she were still here ... Then what about the life she had left behind? Her thoughts spiraled uncontrollably.
What about Ingrid? The real Ingrid. The older Ingrid should be sitting in her tiny apartment right now, complaining about her aching knees while watering the plants on Clara's balcony.
What about her cats? Her dogs?
Who was feeding them?
Who was talking to them every morning the way she always did?
And—
Amara.
Her chest tightened painfully. Was her daughter looking for her?
Had she already noticed she was gone?
Was she frightened?
Crying?
Calling the police?
The thought nearly shattered her. Clara pressed both hands against her mouth, fighting the sudden sting behind her eyes. "I have to go back..." The whisper barely existed. "I have to find a way back."
Then another memory surfaced. Not of Amara. Not of her old apartment. Gray eyes. Soft blond hair. Warm whiskey. A kiss she never should have allowed to happen.
"Oh..." Her eyes widened. Her hands flew from her mouth to her forehead. "Oh no."
She had kissed a complete stranger. Not just kissed him. She had practically thrown herself at him. The memory was vivid enough to make her entire body burn with embarrassment.
"What is wrong with me?" She groaned, covering her face with both hands before collapsing backward onto the bed. "I've completely lost my mind."
A gentle knock sounded against the bedroom door. Before Clara could answer, it swung open.
"Good morning, gorgeous." Ingrid's cheerful voice filled the room long before she did.
She stepped inside carrying two mugs of tea, balancing them effortlessly as though this had become part of their daily routine. Without waiting for permission, she crossed the room and pulled the curtains apart in one smooth motion. Morning sunlight poured inside, washing the room in warm gold.
"There," Ingrid said with satisfaction. "Much better."
Clara blinked against the sudden brightness.
Everything about Ingrid felt... familiar. The way she walked into the room without knocking properly. The effortless confidence. The smile that always seemed to carry a joke she hadn't shared yet.
And somehow... Seeing her made Clara's chest ache. Not because this Ingrid was different. But because she looked exactly like the friend Clara had spent decades growing old with. Only younger. Healthier and carefree.
"You've been staring at me for a full minute," Ingrid said, raising an eyebrow. "Should I be flattered?"
Clara blinked herself back to reality. "I was just thinking."
"That's a dangerous hobby."
A laugh escaped Clara before she could stop it. Ingrid handed her one of the mugs before settling comfortably at the edge of the bed.
Then...
A slow smile spread across her face. Not an ordinary smile. The kind that suggested she knew something.
Or wanted to.
Ingrid leaned forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "So..." She stretched the single word deliberately. "Are you finally going to tell me what happened at the club last night?"
Clara nearly choked on her tea. "W-What?"
"The whole story."
"There isn't a story."
"Mmm."
Ingrid nodded slowly. "I don't believe you."
"There really isn't."
"Oh?" Ingrid folded her arms. "Then explain why you're blushing."
Instinctively, Clara touched her own cheeks. They were warm. Far warmer than they should have been.
"I'm not blushing."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm just hot."
"In Oslo, Really?"
Clara sighed. "I hate you."
"No, you don't." Ingrid laughed, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "I've known you for years, Clara. You cannot hide guilt from me."
"Guilt?"
"You have guilt written all over your face."
"I do not."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You do."
Clara narrowed her eyes. "Ingrid."
"What?"
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you already know."
"I don't know."
She paused just long enough to grin.
"But I'm dying to."
Clara groaned dramatically before burying her face in one hand. "There is nothing to tell."
"Mhm."
"I mean it."
"Are you sure?"
"Ingrid."
"I'm listening."
"...You're impossible."
"I've been called worse."
The room filled with quiet laughter. For a brief moment, Clara almost forgot everything. Almost.
Eventually, Ingrid stood and placed her empty mug on the bedside table. "Okay, I'll let you keep your secrets."
Clara looked up hopefully. "For now."
"...I spoke too soon."
"But," Ingrid continued, pointing a finger toward her with exaggerated seriousness, "don't think you're getting away with it forever."
Clara could only shake her head, smiling despite herself. Then Ingrid clapped her hands once. "Alright."
Her expression shifted, becoming just a little more practical. "As entertaining as your mysterious love life suddenly is..." She walked toward the wardrobe. "...we should get ready."
Clara frowned. "Get ready?"
"Unless you've forgotten..." Ingrid opened the wardrobe doors before pulling out two neatly pressed office outfits.
"We still have to survive another day at the publishing house."
Clara's smile disappeared. Publishing house? She stared blankly at Ingrid. A strange uneasiness settled in her stomach.
Publishing? What publishing?
Carefully, trying not to sound suspicious, she spoke. "Ingrid..."
"Hm?"
"What exactly are we working on these days?"
Ingrid stopped moving. Slowly, she turned around. One eyebrow lifted. "You know...I'm really starting to worry about you."
She placed both hands on her hips. "Don't tell me one ridiculously handsome Norwegian man made you forget your entire life overnight."
"No, I'm just..." Clara searched desperately for an excuse. Before she could find one, Ingrid's expression softened .
"Or..." she said quietly, "...is this because of Henrik?"
Clara blinked. Henrik? She kept her expression carefully neutral.
"...What do you mean?"
Ingrid sighed, the irritation in her face returning almost instantly. "I swear, if that man says one more thing to you..." She crossed the room and sat beside Clara again. Her voice softened. "The HR department promised they're handling it."
“They won’t ignore what he did. The shouting, the intimidation, and the way he kept abusing his position.” She shook her head. "You shouldn't have had to put up with any of it."
Clara listened in silence, quietly piecing together another fragment of this unfamiliar life. Henrik. A superior. Someone who had made work miserable. Someone HR was finally dealing with.
She nodded slowly. Ingrid smiled, mistaking the response for reassurance.
"Good."
She stood again with renewed determination. "Now hurry."
She tossed a neatly folded blouse toward Clara. "We've got work."
Clara caught it automatically. She then looked down at the unfamiliar clothes resting in her lap.
Maybe...
Just maybe...
If this truly was her life now...
Then surviving it meant learning how to live it. At least until she found a way home.
Or discovered whether home still existed at all.
The morning air was crisp, carrying a faint rain scent from the Oslofjord. Cars moved along the streets, tires soft on wet pavement, while people hurried to work, cafés, and stations.
The city was already awake. Everyone moved with purpose. It felt like everyone knew where they were going.
Everyone... Except her.
Clara tightened her fingers around the strap of her handbag as she followed Ingrid toward the nearby tram stop. She caught her reflection in the dark glass of a passing storefront.
For a moment... She didn't recognize the woman looking back.
She wore a cream silk blouse tucked into a charcoal skirt that fell just below her knees. Black tights led into a pair of heels that felt surprisingly natural, even though she couldn’t remember ever owning them.
A light beige trench coat sat over her shoulders, and a small gold necklace caught the morning light whenever she moved.
Even her makeup looked effortless. Natural, professional, and sophisticated. Nothing like the retired woman who used to spend her mornings watering plants in soft cardigans, with flour still on her hands from baking.
A small, helpless smile tugged at her lips. I look like an office worker. No. More than that. She looked like someone who belonged in this city. The thought felt strangely bittersweet.
The tram arrived with a soft mechanical hum. Minutes later, they were seated side by side near the window as Oslo drifted past outside.
Modern glass buildings stood beside old stone architecture. Cyclists moved through morning traffic, while cafés filled with people starting another ordinary day.
Clara watched everything in silence. This world felt astonishingly real. Too real. If this truly was a dream... It was taking remarkable care with the details.
"You've gone quiet again." Ingrid glanced sideways at her.
"I'm just taking everything in."
"You say that like you've never seen Oslo before."
Clara smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm just appreciating it more today."
Ingrid accepted the answer, though not without a curious look.
The tram slowed and stopped in one of the city’s busy business districts. Tall glass buildings reflected the pale morning sky, shining in the weak Scandinavian light. People in business clothes moved through revolving doors, coffee in hand, disappearing into the tall buildings.
"We're here." Ingrid stepped onto the platform. Clara followed. The moment she looked up... She stopped walking.
In front of them stood a sleek twelve-story building of glass and brushed steel. Its design was clean and simple, softened by warm wood details visible through the glass. Near the entrance, a bronze plaque caught the morning light.
Nordlys Publishing Group
The words stole the air from Clara's lungs.
Publishing.
Her heart skipped. For years... No. For decades... Publishing houses had existed only in her imagination, places she dreamed of working in while raising Amara. Places she imagined whenever she finished another manuscript no one would ever read.
She had never expected to stand before one. Much less work inside it. "It's beautiful..." The words escaped before she realized she'd spoken aloud.
Ingrid smiled. "I know."
She nudged Clara lightly with her elbow. "You say that almost every Monday."
"I do?"
"Mhm."
"You always claim the building makes you feel like you're walking into a library disguised as a dream."
Clara blinked. That... Sounded exactly like something she would say. A strange warmth settled inside her. Maybe some parts of her had always been the same.
Even here. Even in another life. She followed Ingrid toward the entrance before suddenly stopping again. "Ingrid."
Her friend turned. "What is it?"
Clara hesitated. She needed answers. But she also couldn't risk sounding completely insane. She chose her words carefully.
"So..." She scratched the back of her neck, forcing an awkward smile. "Remind me again..."
Ingrid folded her arms immediately. "...Here we go."
"What exactly do I do these days?"
Silence. A beat passed. Then another. Ingrid stared. "...Clara."
"What?"
"You cannot seriously be asking me that."
"I just meant..." Clara laughed nervously. "...I've been so distracted lately."
Ingrid continued studying her for another few seconds before finally shaking her head with a sigh. "I don't know whether I should be worried or offended."
"Probably both."
A reluctant smile escaped Ingrid. "You really have been working yourself to death."
She gestured toward the building. "You're an editorial assistant."
Clara listened carefully.
"You work with the Children's Literature Division."
Her eyes widened slightly. Children's books. Something inside her softened immediately.
It felt... Right.
"You assist the senior editors, coordinate manuscripts, communicate with illustrators, proofread submissions, and somehow manage to remember everyone else's deadlines better than they do."
Clara blinked. "I do all that?"
"You do. And..."
Ingrid grinned knowingly. "...you're also writing your own stories."
Clara's breath caught. "My... own stories?"
Ingrid nodded while smiling at her. Something tightened in Clara's chest. Even here...
She had still become a writer. Maybe dreams really did follow people across worlds.