Chapter 15: A new life (Part 4)

After what felt like drifting through heavy fog, Pete stirred. A warm breeze brushed his face, and when he opened his eyes, the world returned in fragments—sunlight filtering through the canopy above, the scent of moss and water in the air, and a pair of worried eyes staring down at him. Popuri's eyes.

She hovered over him, her brow furrowed in concern that sat oddly on her otherwise bold, confident features. For a brief moment, she looked like someone else entirely than the girl he saw just a moment—softer, unsure.

"Are you okay?" she asked. Her tone was direct, perhaps a little clipped, but not unkind. It was the voice of someone used to hiding tenderness beneath layers of armor.

Pete groaned, sitting up with effort. His head throbbed like a drumbeat behind his eyes. He pressed his fingers to his temples and winced. "My head hurts," he muttered.

Popuri let out a huff, half exasperated, half relieved, and immediately crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive gesture. "Seriously, Pete? You fainted? Right in front of me?" she snapped. "What's wrong with you?"

Her words were sharp, meant to scold—but they didn't quite land. There was something beneath the frustration. Concern. Real, involuntary concern, like a fire she couldn't smother quickly enough. It flickered behind her glare, dancing in the furrow of her brow, the way her fingers gripped her arms just a little too tightly.

Before Pete could muster a reply, Popuri seized his arm and yanked him to his feet with startling strength. The sudden motion sent a fresh wave of dizziness crashing over him, and he staggered, barely managing to stay upright.

Popuri didn't give him a second to catch his breath. She spun and began marching down the forest path, dragging him behind her with a grip like iron.

"W–Where are you taking me?" Pete asked, stumbling to match her brisk pace, still unsteady on his feet.

"To the clinic, duh," she snapped over her shoulder, not bothering to slow down. "You passed out out of nowhere, you're still wobbling around like a baby deer, and frankly, you're acting weird. Someone needs to take a look at you before you keel over again—or start spouting nonsense."

Pete tried to protest, but her pace and tone left little room for argument. The forest blurred around them as he let himself be pulled forward—half dragged, half guided—toward the one place he wasn't sure he wanted to go. And yet, beneath Popuri's impatient words, he caught something else in her voice. Worry.

Not the kind that came from obligation, but the kind that came from someone who didn't know why they cared—only that they did.

The trees blurred around them, sunlight flickering through the shifting canopy like a strobe of gold and green. Pete stumbled over roots and uneven ground, still reeling from the dissonance of this world. Every step forward felt like trying to outrun a dream that refused to make sense. He could barely think, let alone speak, before the forest gave way to the familiar fencing of the chicken ranch and the worn cobblestone path that led into Mineral Town.

Popuri didn't slow for a second. They stormed into the heart of town like a summer squall, drawing glances from startled villagers. A few paused mid-task—watering plants, sweeping porches, chatting on corners—to watch the scene unfold, but Popuri pressed on, her grip like iron around Pete's wrist, dragging him behind her as if he were some misbehaving child. Or worse—luggage.

When they reached the clinic, she didn't bother knocking. The door flew open with a bang, slamming against the inside wall hard enough to rattle the frame.

A burst of sterile air greeted them, tinged with the crisp scents of antiseptic and dried herbs. Inside, Elli stood at the reception counter, gently arranging a tray of bandages. At the sound of the door, she looked up sharply, nearly dropping the roll of gauze in her hand.

Elli's eyes widened with alarm as she rushed from behind the counter. "Oh my—Popuri! What happened?"

Popuri didn't bother with greetings or preamble. She strode straight to the desk, her grip still firmly locked around Pete's arm like a sheriff delivering a suspect. "Your boyfriend passed out at the hot springs," she said bluntly, her voice edged with irritation. "So I dragged him here."

Before Pete could protest, she gave him a sharp shove that sent him stumbling forward. He caught himself on the edge of the counter, blinking in disbelief.

"I—wait—Hey!" he snapped, shooting her a bewildered look over his shoulder. "Was that really necessary?"

Popuri tossed her pink hair with a dramatic huff, as if his complaint had exhausted her patience. "Well, I've done my good deed for the day," she announced, brushing imaginary dust from her corset like a stage actress bowing out of a scene.

With a flick of her wrist, she turned, "See ya," she called breezily, already halfway out the door, never once glancing back.

The door swung closed behind her with a soft thud, leaving a stunned silence in her wake. Pete straightened slowly, rubbing his arm where her fingers had left their mark, and looked to Elli.

Pete stood frozen, the lingering echo of Popuri's sharp departure ringing louder in his ears than the closing door. It felt as if the ground beneath him had shifted all over again—another crack in the already unstable foundation of his reality.

Elli approached quietly, her steps soft against the tiled floor, her brow knit in a worried crease. She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm with a gentleness that cut through the fog in his head.

"Pete," she said softly, her voice like a tether to something steady. "Are you okay? What happened at the hot springs?"

He let out a slow, uneven breath, pressing his fingers to his temple. As if clarity could be summoned through sheer will.

"I… don't know," he murmured. "It's just… everything's coming at me too fast.."

Elli didn't press him. She just nodded, the concern in her eyes deepening, tempered by quiet understanding. There was no judgment in her gaze—only compassion and something else he couldn't quite name.

"Come on," she said gently, her hand still resting on his arm. "Let's get you checked out. You don't have to explain it all right now. Just breathe."

She guided him gently to one of the clinic beds, her touch a quiet reassurance against the chaos spinning inside him. Pete sat down slowly, his gaze flickering over the clean white walls, the polished counters, and the faint scent of herbs and antiseptic that hung in the air. Everything about the clinic was quiet, orderly—yet none of it felt familiar. Like trying to solve a puzzle with the edge pieces missing.

Elli moved with practiced precision, checking his pulse, touching his forehead, listening to his chest with a cold stethoscope that barely registered against the heat of his spiraling thoughts. He shifted uneasily on the crinkling paper sheet, his mind a tangled knot of memories and contradictions. Everything was wrong. Everyone was different. Every answer only led to more questions.

He couldn't keep it in anymore. "Elli," he blurted, voice tight and cracking, "what are you doing here? You work at the clinic now?"

She paused, her hand hovering midair, caught off guard. Her brows pinched together as she looked at him with quiet concern—like he'd just asked why water was wet.

"Of course I do," she said slowly, carefully. "I've been working here as a nurse and midwife for years." Her voice was soft, but a thread of worry wove through it. "Pete… are you sure you're feeling okay?"

Pete sat up too fast. The thin paper beneath him crinkled violently, and a nearby tray of instruments rattled with the sudden movement. "Wait—what happened to the bakery?" the words bursting out of him, raw and urgent.

Elli blinked, visibly taken aback. She stepped back slightly, as if giving him space might help make sense of his confusion.

"The bakery?" she repeated, slowly, like she wasn't sure if she'd heard him right. "Pete, Mineral Town doesn't have a bakery. We never have."

Pete's world tilted. He stared at her, hoping—desperately—that she'd crack a smile and say she was joking. But her expression remained earnest, confused, and concerned. No bakery. No warm scent of rising dough. No quiet afternoons sharing slices of cake. Gone.

His throat tightened, and his hands curled into fists against the mattress. Every detail that marked his life—his real life—was vanishing, one piece at a time. The people, the places, even their professions. All wrong. All unfamiliar.

His voice came out hoarse, almost inaudible. "This… this isn't my world."

Elli gently touched his shoulder. "Pete, you're scaring me. Maybe you just need to rest. Maybe something's… off today."

But Pete wasn't listening. Not really. Her words were just sound—thin and distant, like voices underwater. His thoughts were slipping, unraveling, as the truth crept closer with cold, deliberate steps: this place wasn't home. It wore the face of familiarity, but behind every smile, every building, every name was something wrong. Slightly off. A reflection with the features twisted just enough to unsettle.

And the more he looked around—the sterile clinic, the whitewashed walls, the woman in front of him who looked like Elli but didn't bake or laugh the same way—the more uncertain he became that home even existed anymore.

Elli gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers were light but steady, anchoring him like a tether to a world he wasn't sure he wanted to stay in. Her voice softened, touched by growing concern. "Maybe you should see the doctor," she said gently.

Pete blinked, startled from his spiraling thoughts. "The doctor?" he echoed, his voice hoarse. It scraped against his throat like something unused for too long.

The title alone made his pulse quicken. After everything—after Elli the nurse, Gotz the carpenter, Rick the chicken rancher—he realized he was almost afraid to find out who the doctor was in this place. What if it was someone else he used to know, warped into another life? What if it was someone he'd already buried back home, like his grandfather?

The silence stretched, heavy with dread. And then, as if summoned by fate—or something far less forgiving—a new voice sliced cleanly through the tension, smooth and unfamiliar.

"Did someone call the doctor?"

Pete's head snapped toward the voice. A man strode in from the far end of the clinic—tall, composed, immaculate. His white lab coat looked starched to the point of armor, not a wrinkle in sight. Jet-black hair was slicked neatly into place, a gleaming silver head mirror perched perfectly on his brow, catching the fluorescent lights and sending a harsh glint across the room. He moved with an unhurried grace, the kind bred from years of crises, the kind meant to project reassurance.

But to Pete, he was a nightmare in a physician's disguise. Panic erupted in his chest like a firecracker. His breath hitched, his muscles locked. With a startled shout, he jerked back so fast that his heel caught on the leg of the stool beneath him, sending it clattering across the tiled floor. "Who the hell are you!?" Pete barked, voice raw with alarm. His eyes were wide, frantic—searching the stranger's face for something, anything, that made sense.

The doctor froze, mid-step. His calm expression faltered for the briefest moment, brows lifting in confusion. "Um… it's me. Doctor Trent. I'm the physician here."

The words fell like lead into the room. Pete felt the ground tilt. His vision swam, the edges blurring with disbelief and rising dread. "Doctor Trent?" he repeated, choking on the name as if it physically hurt to say. His pulse roared in his ears. "Doctor Trent doesn't exist. Not in Flowerbud. I've never seen him before."

Elli moved quickly, stepping between them with both hands raised, her voice soothing and careful like she was trying to calm a patient on the edge of hysteria. "Pete, it's okay. I promise," she said softly. "He's not new. This is Doctor Trent. He's always been here. He's been Mineral Town's doctor for years."

But Pete couldn't hear her. Not really. His gaze was locked on the stranger in the lab coat—the man with the name of someone who didn't belong. He wasn't just another mismatch in this fractured world. He was something more jarring. More wrong. A non-existing piece forced into the puzzle with too much pressure. A name out of nowhere. A face he'd never known in a town that kept rewriting the rules of what was real.

His fists clenched around the edges of the clinic bed. "This isn't my home," he said, barely audible now, as if saying it any louder might make the room crumble around him.

Trent exchanged a glance with Elli, the cool professionalism in his expression faltering just enough to reveal a flicker of unease. The lines on his otherwise composed face deepened, concern knitting his brow as he looked over at the man hunched tensely on the clinic bed.

"What happened to Pete?" he asked quietly, his voice low and measured, the tone of a man used to asking hard questions gently. "Why doesn't he recognize me?"

Elli let out a slow breath through her nose, crossing her arms tightly across her chest like she was holding herself together. "He's been like this since this morning," she said, her voice strained, unsure.

Trent took a slow, contemplative step closer, folding his arms across his chest. "Was he disoriented last night? Forgetful? Slurring his words? Anything unusual?"

Elli's gaze drifted up toward the ceiling, scanning her memory. "Not really… although he was a little rougher than usual—"

Pete's head snapped up, eyes wide in horror. "Okay! Okay, that's enough!" he blurted, lurching upright on the bed. His hands flailed in panicked protest. "Can we not discuss our sex life in front of the doctor?!"

Elli's eyes widened in pure confusion—then realization slammed into her face like a gust of wind. Her cheeks flushed scarlet. "What?! No, Pete! I meant the animals! You were rough with the cows yesterday!"

A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the distant ticking of a wall clock. Trent coughed into his fist, clearly fighting to keep a straight face. One brow arched slowly, and the corner of his mouth twitched with the threat of a smirk.

"Well," he said dryly, "glad to know his sense of humor is still functioning. If nothing else, his personality seems mostly intact."

Pete groaned, dragging both hands down his face in mortified surrender. "Just kill me now." He wasn't sure what was worse—being trapped in an unfamiliar reality, or dying of secondhand embarrassment in front of a Elli who has always been his girlfriend, and a man who, apparently, had always been his doctor.

Trent chuckled softly, but the moment passed quickly as he slid back into his professional role. His posture straightened, and the warmth in his expression gave way to focus. "Alright, Pete," he said, his tone calm and measured. "Let's concentrate on what matters—figuring out what's going on with you."

He began the examination methodically, pulling a small flashlight from his coat pocket. With practiced ease, he leaned in, shining the beam into Pete's eyes. The pupils responded appropriately, contracting and dilating with the shifting light. Trent moved the beam side to side, up and down, his gaze sharp and calculating. Pete's eyes followed without hesitation—no delay, no sign of disorientation. Satisfied, Trent clicked the light off and made a quiet note on his clipboard.

"Open your mouth," he instructed.

Pete did as he was told, and Trent inspected his throat and tongue quickly but thoroughly, the tip of his pen already dancing across the paper by the time he stepped back. All signs pointed to perfect health.

Next came the reflex test. Trent knelt, tapping just below Pete's kneecap with a small, rubber-headed hammer. Pete's leg responded with a light jerk—normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Trent's brow lifted slightly, a faint crease forming between his eyes as he jotted down another line of observations.

"Standard reflexes. No issues there," he muttered, straightening up again. His gaze lingered on Pete's face now, searching for any sign of deeper trouble—stress, confusion, disassociation. But what he saw was a man caught somewhere between fear and disbelief, every bit of him struggling to reconcile reality.

Trent rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully and looked over at Elli. "Physically, he's fine. Everything checks out. But something… still feels off."

Trent reached behind his ear and plucked out a stubby pencil, the wood worn smooth from years of use. With one hand, he flipped open a weathered notebook packed with scribbles, margins crammed with shorthand, patient names, symptoms, and the occasional coffee ring. He adjusted his glasses with a practiced flick of his finger, then gave Pete a measured, professional look.

"Let's start simple," he said, tone light but purposeful. "Just a few questions to see where your head's at." Pete nodded, cautious. "What's your name?"

"Pete," he replied immediately, voice steady despite the whirlwind inside him.

Trent nodded and made a quick notation. "Good. And where do you live?

Pete hesitated. His eyes darted to Elli, searching her face for guidance, reassurance, or maybe just a trace of something familiar. He was about to say the Flowerbud farm, but he figures that its better to play along.

Then he looked back at Trent. "The farm… in Mineral Town," he said slowly, tasting each word as if it might change in his mouth.

Trent gave another short nod and moved on. "Last thing you ate?"

Pete shrugged. "A couple of strawberry dogs."

Trent's pencil froze mid-stroke. The silence that followed was sharp, immediate. Even the distant ticking of the clinic clock seemed to pause in disbelief. Trent blinked, lifting his gaze from the notebook. "I'm sorry… strawberry what?"

He turned his head, eyebrows climbing as he looked at Elli. "Strawberry dogs, really? I know you like to get creative in the kitchen, but what exactly are you feeding this man?"

Elli's eyes widened, and she shot Pete a bewildered look. "Don't look at me—I'd never make something like that. I don't even know what those are!"

The doctor tapped the eraser end of the pencil against his notebook, scribbled something in the margin, and glanced at Pete again. "This just keeps getting stranger."

Pete sat in stunned silence, his hands resting limply in his lap. The words "strawberry dogs" echoed in his mind like an echo in an empty room. Clearly, he made the mistake of bringing his wife's signature meal up. In this twisted reality, nobody knows or even heard of such a dish.

After completing a series of exams, including testing Pete's balance, reflexes, and even his sense of smell, Doctor Trent finally set down his clipboard with a sigh. "Well, Pete, I don't see anything physically wrong with you. Your vitals are normal, your reflexes are sharp, and there's no sign of illness. Whatever's going on might just be stress." He leaned against his desk, arms crossed thoughtfully. "I suggest you take a break from the farm for a few days. Rest, relax, and clear your mind."

As Pete mulled over the suggestion, Trent added with a teasing smirk, "Oh, and one more thing—maybe lay off the strawberry dogs for a while. I'm no chef, but I can't imagine they're good for your stomach… or your head."

Pete managed a weak laugh, though his thoughts remained heavy. Something strange was happening, and while he appreciated the doctor's advice, he knew deep down that no amount of rest would solve the mystery of the world around him.

As Pete continued to sit on the clinic bed, still reeling from the day's strange revelations, the door suddenly burst open. Karen rushed in, supporting Jeff, who was hunched over and clutching his stomach in visible pain. "Doctor Trent!" Karen called, her voice tight with urgency. "It's my dad—his stomach's acting up again!"

Doctor Trent sprang into action, guiding Jeff toward an empty examination bed. "Lay him down here. Karen, tell me exactly what happened," Trent said, already checking Jeff's pulse and examining his pallor.

Elli stepped forward to assist, but Pete gently raised a hand to stop her, his voice quiet, uncertain. "What's going on with Jeff?"

She blinked, caught off guard. "You don't remember?"

Pete exhaled heavily, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Please… just humor me."

There was a long pause. Elli's shoulders sank, and when she finally spoke, her voice carried a softness laced with quiet sorrow. "Jeff's been having stomach problems for a while now. Stress, mostly." Her eyes drifted across the room to where Karen stood, half-shadowed by the clinic's warm lamplight. She wrung her hands together, fingers twitching in rhythm with her worry, hovering protectively near her father's bedside.

Elli's gaze lingered on her, and her voice dropped even lower. "Poor Karen. She's doing everything she can—keeping him fed, making sure he takes his medicine, managing the store alone when he's not well. It hasn't been easy for her… not after what happened last year."

Pete followed her eyes to Karen and saw it for himself—her hunched posture, the way her brow furrowed with every shallow breath Jeff took. Gone was the carefree girl he remembered from Flowerbud Village, the one who laughed loudly over drinks. Always with a teasing smirk and a glass of something strong in hand. This Karen… she looked older, somehow, not in years but in weight—carrying something heavy, something that had reshaped her from the inside out.

He glanced down at his own hands, fingers curling slightly as an ache tightened in his chest. Another person, familiar yet foreign. Another life rewritten. His voice was barely a whisper. "How many more people I know are going to be strangers to me?"

Seeing the clinic get busy caring for Jeff, Pete stumbled out of the clinic, his footsteps heavy and uneven as his mind raced with despair. The clinic bustled behind him, the low hum of concern and movement muffled by the pounding in Pete's ears. He staggered out into the afternoon light, blinking against the sudden brightness, his body moving on instinct while his thoughts unraveled into chaos. The chill of the breeze grazed his skin, but he felt numb to it—numb to everything except the ache hollowing out his chest.

His boots scuffed against the cobbled path as he wandered aimlessly, past buildings that wore familiar shapes like masks, past people who carried familiar names but wore different lives. His heart thudded with every step, slower, heavier, until he came to a stop in front of the graveyard.

There, Pete's knees buckled. He collapsed onto the hard, bare earth like something finally giving way. His fingers clawed at the dirt, trembling, and for a long moment, he just breathed—ragged, uneven gasps that tore through him like broken glass. Then the dam broke.

Tears spilled freely, unchecked, hot against the cold sting of his cheeks. His shoulders shook with every sob as grief took over, raw and unfiltered. He wasn't sure if he was crying for what he'd lost or for the terrible truth he was finally beginning to accept.

"Why?" he whispered, the word fragile as a dying flame. His voice cracked, barely audible over the wind threading through the trees. "Why is this happening to me?"

Images of his childhood flooded his mind—Popuri laughing barefoot in a sun-drenched field, her arms dusted with dirt as she played with her favorite flowers in the sunny afternoons, the way she'd curled beside him under a shared blanket, whispering dreams for the future. Their farm. Their home. Their impossible, beautiful love. It had been fleeting… but it had been real. Now she was someone else. Taller. Colder. A stranger behind a familiar face.

And the rest—his friends, his neighbors, his life—had been rewritten. Repurposed like props in a play he didn't remember auditioning for.

"I don't belong here," Pete choked out, the words falling from his lips like ash. His hands dug into the earth, gripping it as if he could pull himself back through time by sheer will. "I need to go back. I have to go back…"

But there was no machine. No lab. No Rick-the-inventor. No familiar rhythm of Flowerbud Village waiting on the other side.

There was only this place.

And Pete, kneeling in the dirt like a man mourning the ghost of a world that might never return.