The sound of birds couldn't overpower the cell phone alarm.
Helena, still mentally exhausted from the previous day and heavy with sleep, got up. She needed to make breakfast for the kids. With dragging, disconnected steps, she opened the door to Maya's room. That child, in the middle of a growth spurt, slept like a rock — waking her up was always a battle. But after some effort, she always managed…
But today, to her surprise, Maya wasn't in her room. The bed was made, and a new bear-patterned pajama lay tossed on top of it. Helena's heart tightened immediately. Without thinking twice, she ran to Paul's room. She paused for a moment at the door, unsure whether to knock… but urgency won. She opened it. The room was also empty.
Her tired mind was trying to understand what was happening when a noise from the kitchen caught her attention. In a split second, a thousand hypotheses raced through her head, but before she could organize any thought, a louder sound echoed from downstairs. Helena startled and, by instinct, grabbed the baseball bat next to her son's bed.
"If someone is taking my babies… I swear to God I'll go to jail for murder."
Heart racing, she walked quickly to the stairs. Then she smelled coffee, but she didn't stop. She needed to see for herself. As she approached the kitchen, she raised the bat, ready to strike whoever was there. She entered already swinging the blow, from top to bottom.
But instead of an intruder… she found Paul. Wearing a pink apron.
Before the bat could hit anything, he moved. Fast and precise, he slid to the side, closed the distance, and blocked the swing with his arm. Helena saw it clearly: too fast, direct, confident — like someone used to fighting. But that didn't make sense. Her son wasn't like that. Paul always avoided fights, took after his father in that way, did everything to stay out of a fight… but when he did get into one, Helena didn't like to remember.
— Mom… are you okay?
She was still lost. Yesterday had already been strange, but today it seemed like her son had been trained by some martial arts master.
— Where's Maya?!
Her voice came out louder than she intended.
— Mom, I'm here…
The answer came from the corner. Maya was sitting at the table, her eyes heavy with sleep. Helena looked at her, relieved. The girl was fine… just completely defeated by exhaustion.
— Mom… brother is mean… — she yawned — he woke me up way too early…
— Poor thing…
Helena approached, picked up her daughter, and Maya immediately buried her face in her neck, looking for a comfortable position to fall back asleep. Helena then lifted her gaze to Paul. He was flipping an omelet in the air and catching it in the pan with absurd naturalness, as if it were something he did every day.
Questions began to bubble in her head, but exhaustion won. She needed coffee. Temporarily ignoring everything, she went to the table, still carrying half-asleep Maya, and poured herself a cup. That's when she noticed the books.
They were old cookbooks, given to her by her sister.
"So that's how you learned, you little rascal… all mysterious yesterday, huh…"
She thought, observing. But something seemed off. She frowned and picked up one of the books.
"100 Ways to Make Coffee."
She picked up another.
"The Coffee of Life: Which One Is Best?"
Another.
"10 Ways to Properly Use the H3000 Coffee Maker."
Helena stood still, staring, blinking a few times, trying to process. Slowly, she began to look around the kitchen, as if expecting to find a hidden camera. There was none.
Paul noticed. He followed his mother's gaze to the books and, understanding, laughed a little sheepishly.
— I… forgot how to make coffee… it's been a long time…
He stopped there, as if that explained everything. Helena just kept looking, in silence, drinking her coffee — which was bad — while watching her son. Paul stirred the eggs with confident movements, tossing the food in the air and catching it precisely, without hesitation, without error, without room for doubt.
Her son was different. Very different.
The day before yesterday, he was still the boy who woke up, drank his coffee, and threw a fit when called "baby." She knew her baby was no longer a baby — he was a handsome young man, independent, hardworking, a little distracted… and a complete loser in the domestic war against his own sister. But yesterday and today, he had shattered everything she thought she knew about him.
Life was funny. There she was, with a headache, exhausted, drinking bad coffee, with her daughter sleeping on her shoulder… and all she wanted was to sit in front of him and ask: "Who hurt my baby?" But at the same time, looking at him made her uneasy. Anxious. He was too different — and part of her was afraid to find out why.
Paul brought the plates to the table. Waffles, hearty omelets, syrups, banana smoothie, granola, and coffee. A complete, balanced breakfast with an incredible smell. He approached, carefully picked up Maya, and sat her on his lap, waking her slowly.
— Maya, my little angel… look how big this omelet I made for you is…
He brought the plate close to her face, and the girl woke up to the smell. He smiled, returned the plate to the table, picked up a spoon, and began to feed her. Slowly, she woke up — more from the flavor than from will.
Paul then looked at his mother.
— There's some for you too… I made the smoothie the way you like it… I hope you enjoy it.
Helena watched in silence, feeling a tightness in her chest. Despite everything — the change, the fear, the strangeness — it was still her son there. And when she took the first bite, she couldn't hide her surprise.
The taste was too good. Good enough to, for a moment, make all the questions disappear.
Breakfast was filled with the sound of plates and glasses, accompanied by the satisfied "mmmms" of a child focused on eating.
Helena said nothing. She wanted to speak… but knew it wasn't time yet.
When they finished, Maya seemed fully awake — or rather, she seemed like a child who had just eaten chocolate, suddenly bursting with energy. She ran off to brush her teeth, eager to get to school and tell everyone that her brother had become a kitchen god.
Helena stood up to go to the sink, but Paul stopped her halfway. With a light gesture, he held his mother and guided her to the living room couch, as if he had already decided where she should be.
The TV was already on, some random channel.
But that wasn't all.
That's when she noticed something that had gone unnoticed until that moment: Paul's TV, right next to it, was connected to YouTube, streaming a live feed of an airport — split into four screens.
In that instant, everything came back.
Last night's conversation. The pressure. The unease.
The fear.
Not exactly fear of him… but of the unknown.
Looking at the screens, that feeling returned with force.
She was afraid to understand. Afraid that, no matter what he said, there would be nothing she could do.
But one thing was certain: even with doubts, even with fear… she would do everything in her power to help her baby.
She knew.
He was different. Very different…
Helena squinted slightly, trying to find an explanation that made sense.
For a second, an absurd thought crossed her mind.
"Did he get someone pregnant…?"
That would explain… the strange behavior. The sudden responsibility. Even the fact that he was cooking.
…but no.
That didn't explain everything.
Paul noticed her look.
— It'll start soon… Don't worry, I'll take Maya to school. I already called your work, too. I spoke with a Shirley something, told her you weren't feeling well… since you never miss a day, they gave you the day off.
Shirley was the HR manager, an understanding person who always encouraged her to take time off…
But that wasn't what bothered Helena.
It was the way he spoke.
"A Shirley something"…
Even though he had met her just a few days ago, at her daughter's birthday party.
…as if he didn't remember.
Before she could question him, Paul was already heading back upstairs. Shortly after, he returned with Maya, ready to go.
Before leaving, he looked at his mother, a little awkwardly, and said:
— Don't worry… I'm here now.
Helena didn't reply.
Truth be told… she wasn't sure she wanted to understand what that meant.
She took a deep breath and sat down in the armchair, perfectly positioned between the two TVs. She stayed there, waiting… hoping, in silence, that all of this was some kind of elaborate prank. That her son had, in some absurd way, taken acting, cooking, and martial arts classes in the few free hours he had every day.
But she knew.
That was impossible.
Paul had always been intelligent. Handsome. Determined.
But he was also someone with clear goals: college, a good job, a stable life. That's why he never brought girls home… or almost never.
Sitting there, looking at the screens, she couldn't help but pay attention.
On the right TV, a digital channel was airing a cooking show about sweets. The recipe looked good… but she didn't even consider trying to replicate it.
On the left TV, the YouTube stream showed a 24-hour live feed of Los Angeles International Airport, split into four different screens: two showed the busy interior of the airport, one showed the runway and taxiing planes… and the last pointed at the sky, tracking aircraft approaching for landing.
And without realizing it…
She began to wait.
Time seemed to pass slowly.
The TV volume was low, but Helena didn't mind. Her gaze was fixed on YouTube, more specifically on camera four.
As she waited, she let her mind wander.
"If this actually happens…"
"Was Paul abducted?"
"Or… is he, like, a Kryptonian, swapped with my son?"
Helena let out a soft laugh at the absurdity of her own thoughts. It was ridiculous… but looking at those screens, it was hard not to think of things like that. Deep down, she still blamed her husband for that — he loved that kind of stuff, aliens, flying saucers…
She remembered clearly when he binge-watched that documentary, Space Travelers. Five hours straight. He loved it. She, as an understanding wife, stayed by his side… and to this day, she considered those the longest five hours of her life.
Forcing herself to focus again, Helena tried to pay attention to the broadcast, but insecurity kept making her mind drift.
She remembered the day Paul got into a fight with another boy. Her son, always calm, always controlled… broke the arm of a bully who had pushed Maya.
Or the time Maya put a hamster inside his bed covers. The scream Paul let out echoed through the entire house. He said he felt "something going down his pants" as he ran desperately through the house. That day, Maya seemed especially demonic.
Of course, Helena had to help her son and scold the girl. She was forbidden from taking animals from classmates… though that didn't stop her from, days later, bringing a chicken to wake up her brother.
And then came a softer memory.
The first time he said "Mommy."
Her sweet, adorable baby said "Mommy" before "Daddy." That day, Helena won a hundred dollars in a family bet… and she never let her husband forget it.
Lost in these thoughts, she didn't even notice when the airport was overtaken by a dense fog.
Still, she could follow the planes on the radar on camera three, which had shifted to compensate for visibility.
When she realized she was getting distracted again, Helena forced her attention back to the screens.
On the right TV, the recipe had changed — now it was a pie.
But on the left…
The left was different.
A thick fog now completely covered the airport.
The apprehension returned with force.
Helena turned up the volume on the left broadcast and muted the other TV. The atmosphere felt strange. There were no clear voices, no rain… just the distant sound of planes cutting through the sky.
The silence, broken only by that noise, made everything even more tense.
She tried to follow along as best she could: eyes on the radar on screen three, attention on the audio from camera four, searching for any sign of approach.
Every now and then, voices from the control tower came through the broadcast.
The minutes began to drag.
They felt like hours.
Then… it happened.
The sound of a plane began to grow.
Over the radio, a voice came through.
— Tower, this is American Airlines Flight 747, registration 23653. Requesting landing clearance… we're experiencing sensor anomalies.
The tower took a moment to respond.
— Clearance denied. Fog is too dense. Advise correcting course to north 32.43, toward Burbank Airport.
Helena held her breath, hoping the plane would simply obey.
— Tower… we can't wait. Our instruments are inconsistent… we're descending.
Her body went rigid.
Her face froze.
A sense of terror began to take shape, even as she tried to convince herself that this could just be a recording… some kind of staged act.
— Flight 23653, you are not cleared to land.
The sound of the plane grew louder and louder.
She couldn't see it through the camera… but on the radar, the approach was clear.
— Tower, this is Flight 23653… I cannot comply with that order. Requesting emergency response tea—
Suddenly, the audio cut off. On the radar, there was no plane within kilometers. But Flight 23653 was there — it was close, talking to the tower, in the process of landing. Its presence was heard by Helena through camera four.
— Flight 23653, are you there?
The tower was answered only by the characteristic static of the equipment… but nothing from the plane.
Someone asked:
— The plane was right there. Did anyone see any fireball?
The atmosphere in the tower seemed to freeze. Most of them were probably thinking of the more than five hundred lives lost in that incident.
— There was no fireball. I was looking in that direction… I can't see much in this fog… but I think a fireball that big would be visible.
— Send out the response team. Change the status of future flights from delayed to canceled. And… I'm going to call the NOA. Cut the transmission.
Those words brought the stream to an end.
Helena, terrified, felt fear rising in her throat. Her sweaty hand trembled.
Carefully, she turned down the volume on Paul's TV and turned up the one in the living room.
Helena could no longer stand still. She got up and began pacing in circles. Sometimes she stopped, muttered something, and then started walking again.
"Was Paul right? Or is this really a prank?"
— Paul, you got me, hahaha, you can come out…
The answer was a cold silence, broken only by some recipe that no longer mattered.
— Paul! Come out now, you hit the nail on the head… Come out now!
Again, she was alone in the house.
"Why, why, why?"
Walking back and forth, Helena held her head in her hands. She looked at the house with suspicion, feeling that it seemed frightening today.
She knew: her house was normal. But the fear of the unknown can plant fears in our minds.
She wanted to leave. She wanted to go get Paul and make him talk.
"Damn it, I'm his mother. I can do whatever I want."
As she was walking toward the door, the TV suddenly changed its tone. An emergency alert sounded abruptly, making her almost jump out of her skin. Realizing what it was, she approached to see.
— We interrupt our regular programming to report on the disappearance of American Airlines Flight 23653. We don't have much information at this time… but we know it vanished during descent, preparing to land in dense fog… Um… the tower doesn't know what happened… they just lost contact.
Helena looked at the reporter, saw the fear in her. It was the first time that reporter had ever spoken of something so strange.
— We have new information… I… production, is this right?… Uh… sorry… The fog that covered the entire airport has dissipated.
"What do you mean, dissipated?" Helena thought. "Fog that thick would take hours to dissipate…"
But more importantly: Helena could see how scared the reporter was, and how crazy this all seemed to both of them. But the facts were there.
— Emergency teams will be dispatched to search for traces of the plane… Um, but… municipal emergency services have received no calls about fire or explosions… We… we'll wait for more information and be back with you.
"How can an 80-meter plane weighing nearly 500 tons simply disappear? If it didn't crash... where is it?"*
Helena resumed her pacing, biting her nails like she did when she was young studying for exams. But nothing helped. Her son, her baby, Paul was right. But what did that mean?
"Is he a medium?"
He would have told her.
"He… he…"
She couldn't come up with any excuse for that kind of prediction. It was terrifying. She felt for her son and her daughter, fearing what the future would hold.
"Damn… and to think I'd rather it be a pregnancy right now."
Helena climbed the stairs. In her room, on top of the closet, was something she had abandoned a long time ago. She thought about taking it. Considering how bad her mental state was, she gave up on the idea.
On top of the closet was a pack of red cigarettes. She had smoked for a long time, but thanks to her pregnancy and her understanding husband, she quit. But quit for good… no, never. Cigarettes had become an escape from the pressures of life and work.
She took the pack, glanced inside: one cigarette. Actually, it was an old cigarette. It had been three months since she'd bought a new pack. But that didn't cross her mind.
She took the cigarette, trying to light it with trembling hands. Time and again, she failed to ignite it. Each failed attempt stressed her out more. Finally, she went to the kitchen, turned on the gas, used the lighter to ignite the flame, and soon she was putting the cigarette to her lips.
The first drag filled her lungs with smoke.
— That's good. Huuuh…
She knew: cigarettes don't calm you down. They're a stimulant. But at the same time, she understood that the ritual of smoking is calming. Breathing deeply, holding, releasing… it's like meditation.
With each drag, she felt calmer, more relaxed. But the fog remained in her head. Exhaustion began to weigh on her. It seemed like adrenaline had been keeping her on her feet. And now? Now she just wanted to rest, to be ready for the future.
Helena turned off the kitchen gas, checked that the door was closed, and went back upstairs to her room.
Lying down, she looked at a photo on the desk. Her, her late husband, Paul, and Maya… all wearing their best clothes, smiling at the camera.
Her eyes focused on Paul for a while. She wasn't stressed anymore, just tired — or too tired to feel anything else.
— We'll talk today, Paul. I hope everything goes well. Don't make me use that belt…
She closed her eyes and soon passed out. The room was filled with a breath — not very calm, but steady.