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Charles returned to his childhood home because he happened to be in the area. He spent some time reminiscing when he noticed something odd...

Suddenly Charles found himself facing the front door of his long abandoned childhood home. How did he get here in the first place? What was he looking for? He wondered, feeling overwhelmed with questions.

He pushed open the door, half expecting to be assaulted by the smell of his mother’s cooking.

As he stepped inside, Charles noticed a strange feeling. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he knew it was there. The house was eerily quiet. The house had always been bustling with life, and now it seemed eerily quiet.

He couldn’t place it, but he knew something was off. It was as if the house was telling him something, but he couldn’t tell what. He looked around, and saw a strange painting hanging on the wall. It was of a strange man, he thought. He couldn’t make out any particular details about him, but something about the painting was familiar.

He decided to ignore the painting, and began to wander around the house. He looked into every room. There were photos everywhere. Some pictures showed Charles smiling, while others showed Charles surrounded by strangers.

“There are a lot of pictures of me” he thought. “Where did all these people come from?”

“Maybe they’re from my childhood,” Charles reasoned. “Maybe they’re from my old room at home.”

He tried to remember, but he was unable to. The house was still a mystery to him. The feeling in the house was beginning to grow stronger.

He went to the art room. It looked like an old album. “Probably my old stuff,” Charles thought. He started reading through the pictures. He could feel himself losing it, and he started to become more and more frustrated. He didn’t want to believe it. How could he have left behind such a collection of photos? What had he forgotten?

He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t be the only one. He needed answers. He needed to find his mother.

He went up the stairs to his old room. It was so dusty and worn out that it felt like nothing but dust and bones. The house was as dead as the pictures in the house.

He looked in the mirror. “Where did you go, mom?” he asked. He was always a bit of a crybaby, but his mother never once took offense to it. She would just say it was the way he was.

He heard a sound from the back door. “Mom? Mom, where are you?” he cried.

A noise from the front door again. “Mom? Mom?” he repeated.

Charles ran down the stairs to the front door. He didn’t even hesitate to run out. It felt like the house had told him to, but what was there to do? There was nothing in this house but his memories.

He ran down the street, looking for a light at the end of the tunnel. There it was, a small light in the distance. It grew brighter and brighter.

“Mom! Mom! It’s me, Charles! It’s your son!” he yelled, running towards the light.

He ran until he couldn’t run anymore. His legs started to give out. He tried to pull himself up, but he couldn’t. He just lay on the ground.

The lights were growing brighter and brighter. Charles closed his eyes. He could feel himself fading away. He was trying to reach the light, but it kept growing larger. He knew it was only a matter of time before he hit it.

“Mom!” he screamed.

“Charles! Charles! Charles! Wake up!”

Charles opened his eyes. He was lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He felt something on his forehead. He touched it, and found a small scar. He couldn’t place it, but he knew it was there.

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