Wrong. Your curtains are navy blue, dark enough to block out the morning sun. This light is pale, watery, filtering through cheap white blinds that rattle against an open window.

The second thing is the smell.

Your room smells like you. Socks, deodorant, the faint ghost of last night's microwave ramen. This room smells different. Cleaner. Like laundry detergent and the faint sweetness of air freshener.

The third thing is the weight of your own body.

You shift, and something is off. Your limbs feel... longer. Lighter. Your chest is wrong — too flat, too firm. Your hands, when you hold them up to the light, are not your hands.

These hands are bigger. Tanned. Calloused in a way yours aren't.

A voice calls from downstairs, muffled through the floorboards.