Page 3 of Time After Time (Golden Sands #1)

Geneviève

N estled cosily in bed, I was jolted awake from a strange dream by what I knew was a black ball of fur sitting on my chest, nearly taking my breath away.

My eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the curtains as the fog of sleep slowly lifted.

Mr. Whiskers was inches from my face, his large eyes staring intently at me.

Just like every morning, he sat there, waiting. His tail swished and thumped against my pillow, each tap growing louder, until it brushed across my face, jolting me awake.

Groaning his name, I squinted against the sudden burst of sunlight and blindly reached for the pillow beside me. The weight on my chest was gone, and my hand found only empty space, confirming that Mr. Whiskers had already leapt off the bed, satisfied with his morning wake-up routine.

I rolled onto my side and let out a sharp yelp, my eyes snapping open.

The sudden shift nearly tipped me off the edge of the bed, and I instinctively grabbed the sheets for balance.

No matter how spacious my queen-sized bed was, I always ended up clinging to the right side, hovering far too close to falling off.

“I had the weirdest dream,” I croaked, my voice rough and scratchy from tossing and turning all night.

With a defeated groan, I let my body slump to the floor, limbs too heavy to bother hauling myself back onto the bed.

My bare feet sank into the soft rug as I pushed myself upright, tugging down my marshmallow-pink shorts, dotted with tiny red hearts, after they’d ridden up in my sleep.

Blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, I glanced around the room, disoriented, as if the walls had shifted overnight. “I dreamt I was in my 30s.”

Mr. Whiskers leapt from the windowsill to a white dresser tucked into the corner of my bedroom.

His movements were smooth, almost graceful, as his tail brushed against the lamp, the vase of tulips, and the ever-growing stack of unread books that seemed to multiply over time.

Although, I didn’t keep those books there for myself.

I walked over to the dresser and opened a drawer, pulling out a sundress from the endless collection I seemed to have accumulated.

Mr. Whiskers padded over, nudging my left arm with his head in a gentle greeting before rubbing his body along the full length of my arm, letting out a contented purr.

I couldn’t help but grin at his favourite morning ritual. His way of saying good morning.

After showering Mr. Whiskers with a few affectionate head rubs and soft kisses, I made my way to the en-suite bathroom. As usual, he followed, hopping up onto the sink to bat at the droplets of water splashing from the tap while I splashed my face.

“I had a miserable life,” I muttered, my eyes locked on my reflection in the mirror.

Just thinking about the dream made my brow furrow.

I rubbed the spot with two fingers, feeling it grow tense and numb.

“I had a horrible day, a terrible boss, and...” I trailed off, my gaze flicking to meet a pair of fiery, vibrant eyes that seemed, strangely enough, to be listening—and almost understanding—my words.

“Sebastian wasn’t there.” The name slipped from my lips, lingering on my tongue before fading away.

The dream had been so vivid, so real, that an unsettling weight settled over my chest. Trying to shake off the feeling, I absent-mindedly rubbed the spot just above my heart, as if that might somehow ease the ache.

“I didn’t speak to Mum and Dad…” A shuddering breath escaped me, my words quivering as they passed through my lips.

I didn’t want to utter the d-word, fearing it would become real.

“Sylvie wasn’t there, either.” Mr. Whiskers offered intermittent meows, as if in response or in an attempt to offer solace to my words.

“And even you weren’t there.” Pouting, I drew closer to him, leaning against the washbasin with my elbows to bring our faces close together, my forehead pressing against his.

“In the dream, there was another Mr. Whiskers, just like you.” In consolation, his tongue darted out, licking the tip of my nose a couple of times.

“Never mind. How about we have some breakfast?” I suggested, standing up as he purred. My stomach echoed with a growl, matching his eager meows. I smiled at the gleam in his eyes as he hopped off the sink, his little body wiggling with impatience.

Before leaving my room, I nudged the vase of tulips further from the edge, noticing that Mr. Whiskers had shifted it too close for comfort.

But my attention was caught by something more unsettling—the mantel clock from my dream.

What? “Has this always been here?” I asked aloud, turning to look at Mr. Whiskers.

His white whiskers twitched, almost as if acknowledging my confusion.

Shaking my head, I focused on the clock’s hands, which were still frozen at 12:12, exactly like in my dream, before everything went black. I lingered for a moment, the unsettling memory creeping back, but then I finally left the room, making a mental note to get it fixed.

I pushed the strange feeling about the clock aside as I made my way downstairs, the mouthwatering smell of pancakes filling the air.

My bare feet hit the last step, and my mind immediately wandered to images of fluffy pancakes stacked high, gleaming thanks to the syrup and crowned with dollops of whipped cream.

Fresh strawberries, ripe bananas, and maybe even a few slices of kiwi popped into my thoughts.

Mr. Whiskers swiftly turned left and trotted into the living room, likely on the hunt for his ragged red-and-white toy fish, which at one point had been bigger than him.

He’d roll around on the floor, playing by himself, waiting for the call that his meal was ready.

When it came, it would be served on his metal plate, engraved with his name.

As I stepped further into the expansive, open living room and kitchen, my attention shifted to my own rumbling hunger.

My mum’s hot pink floral dress swayed with her every movement, her curly blonde hair bouncing in time with the beat.

She was a splash of pink against the white and blue kitchen cabinetry.

With a wooden spoon as her microphone, she twirled and sang along to ABBA’s Super Trouper .

I stifled a laugh, watching her perform.

She always said she’d had been ideal for the films if she weren’t tone deaf.

Mum had always been an ABBA fan, and the Mamma Mia!

films only deepened her love for their music.

That’s why our house, inside and out, was painted white and blue—just like the houses in Santorini.

But whenever we mentioned that, she’d passionately correct us, insisting the films were set on the islands of Skopelos and Skiathos.

I crept closer, peeking over her shoulder as she turned to face the stove.

The sight of the perfectly round pancakes made my stomach growl even louder.

“I’m starving,” I mumbled, my voice thick with hunger.

But her sudden sideways leap, like she hadn’t noticed me coming downstairs until now, proved I’d caught her off guard.

“Geneviève St. James!” Uh-oh. She’d used my full name. “Do you want to send me to an early grave?” Her voice was light, but there was a mock-serious edge to it. I could imagine the corners of her mouth twitching, like she was fighting to keep a straight face.

As she turned to face me, a flash of my dream flashed through my mind.

In it, Mum’s sun-kissed complexion had faded, the usual radiance in her skin replaced by the inevitable marks of ageing.

Her hair, still styled in that familiar 1980s fashion, seemed thinner, the once-bright blonde now duller.

I quickly brushed the thought aside, not wanting it to linger any longer.

“I’m so sorry.” A sheepish smile tugged at my lips, though I hoped she wouldn’t notice the slight quiver in my chin.

The thought that something might change between us, or the uneasy feeling that my dream meant more than just a dream, stuck in the back of my mind.

I tried to focus on something else, like the growl in my stomach. “I’m starving.”

Her laugh echoed through the room, the corners of her mouth lifting just enough to reveal the dimples I always envied.

I couldn’t look away as they deepened the bigger her smile became, dancing across her cheeks.

I couldn’t help but wish I had dimples like hers.

Sylvie had been lucky enough to inherit them.

Still, the resemblance between us was striking.

We both had those bright green eyes that seemed to catch the light, and our skin had that sun-kissed glow, the kind that darkened into a tan after a few days outside.

Our button noses were identical—the kind my dad used to flick playfully.

Mum’s blonde hair was as bright as sunlight, while mine was a light chestnut, falling in loose waves.

Every morning, she struggled with her curls, trying to tame them into something manageable, while my waves fell naturally into place. Recently, she’d added blonde highlights to my hair, which I loved. The sun made them shimmer, and I often found myself admiring the way they caught the light.

I leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek before moving to set the table for us.

Dad was an early riser, always out in the garden at the crack of dawn.

While I enjoyed starting my day with the sun, I could never get up as early as he did.

But he was always out there, tending to our fruits and vegetables, and his dedication had earned our produce a reputation as the best in Golden Sands.

My sister, on the other hand, preferred the nighttime. For her, waking up early was a personal ordeal, so she usually stayed in bed until well into the late morning.