I’m inside a high-end restaurant, everything quiet and polished, soft lighting reflecting off glass and silverware, the kind of place where every sound feels too clear. Conversations stay low, controlled. Plates barely touch the table. It all feels… watched. I walk in small, just 5 years old, in my nightgown, holding my stuffed bear close to me. Nothing about me fits the space, but I don’t hesitate. I just stand there for a moment, looking around—slow, quiet—like I’m taking everything in. Then I start walking, straight toward the food bar. No pause, no confusion, like I already know where it is. My steps are light, almost too quiet against the floor. Nobody stops me. Nobody says anything. It’s like I’m not even supposed to be there… but I am. And somehow, no one questions it. The Carsons are already inside, sitting at their table, dressed up, talking like they belong there. They don’t know me, and I don’t know them. But as I pass, their voices dip just slightly, like something feels off even if they can’t explain it. I don’t look at them. I don’t look at anyone. I just keep walking, holding my bear a little tighter, moving through the room like I’ve done it before, like I’ve always been here—even though nobody knows who I am but boy the Carson's don't like me at all.