5- Things could be different. World III

World III

The following day, I found myself in an unusually vivid dream—one that felt so real, I wished I could stay there forever. I decided to call it World III, a place unlike any I had visited in my sleep before, especially with Milan.

When I stepped out of the second agency, the weight of stress on my shoulders felt even heavier than when I had arrived that morning. Both agencies I visited seemed professional enough and had impressive qualifications, yet neither had anyone actively searching for a live-in position. They promised to keep my application open on their internal boards, but I knew it could be ages before they found a suitable candidate.

I turned my phone off airplane mode, and notifications flooded in. I skimmed through them, dismissing the irrelevant ones until I landed on a text from Abrar. My heart raced—maybe he'd had better luck than I had.

My breath escaped me in a sigh of relief. Though there was no guarantee that Naheed would have someone who would fit the bill, the prospect of another option eased my mind. I quickly thanked Abrar before reaching my car and called Helen to let her know I might be a little late returning home to Chloe.

Arriving at Omega House, I barely recognized it. The building was much larger than I remembered, though much of it was obscured by the rain. I tried to recall the last time I had visited—over three years ago, when Jen had been by my side. That familiar pang of loss resurfaced, a reminder of the void left in my life. I missed her deeply, and while the pain wasn’t as paralyzing anymore, it was still there, a constant reminder that I had to keep moving forward.

Finding the front door was easy, but stepping inside left me feeling utterly lost. A receptionist manned her post, and behind her, a beefy security guard scrutinized my approach. I must not have raised any red flags, as he continued to watch me with a neutral expression.

"I'm here about a job..." I started.

"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist asked.

"Uh, I don't know. Abrar Patel sent me. His brother-in-law Naheed said to stop by."

"What's your name, hon?"

"Eron Stanley."

She flipped through a few pages and nodded. "Yep, you're on the list. Just go through those doors, take the second left, and walk through the cafeteria to the exit on the right. Then take a right."

"Thanks."

As I turned down the second left, I realized I had no idea who I was looking for. Was it Naheed? I figured it would become clear once I got there.

The place had transformed since my last visit. The walls were adorned with vibrant murals, and I paused to read the accompanying plaques. Each piece had been created by a resident, a fact that surprised me given their complexity. I could spend hours lost in their stories, but I needed to keep moving or risk being late for Helen.

The cafeteria was nearly empty, though a few curious eyes followed me as I passed. I could hear the clatter of dishes and voices from the busy kitchen, likely preparing for dinner.

Stepping through the exit, I hesitated—should I go left or right? I cursed under my breath, frustrated that I hadn’t kept the directions straight. If I hadn’t lingered over the murals, perhaps I wouldn’t have forgotten.

I chose left.

I found myself in an administrative wing, and while I seemed to be in the right area, I still had no idea what I was looking for. I checked my watch—quarter past four. I knew I would hit rush hour, which only added to my already fraying nerves. I wandered slowly, scanning office labels: Medical Personnel Only. Overflow Linen Closet. Assistant Financial Director. That last one seemed promising. Whoever it was had to work with Naheed, so I knocked on the door. No answer. Locked. Worth a shot.

As I continued, I finally heard voices coming from behind a door labeled The Birch Room. I knocked tentatively, then poked my head inside. Seven pairs of eyes turned to me, all at a long conference table.

"Can I help you?" an older woman asked, her voice firm and direct.

"Ah, yes. I'm looking for Naheed Shah. His brother-in-law Abrar sent me. I mentioned I’m looking to hire a nanny. My name is Eron Stanley."

Same World.

Three days passed like an eternity.

Dakota Laurent had not left her post since they admitted me here, despite my refusal to engage in conversation. Truth be told, my motivation to talk vanished with the abandoned dreams I once cherished.

Every morning, she arrived to check my IV and stayed until nightfall. Though she always wore a smile, I could see the exhaustion creeping into her eyes, dimming their once-bright curiosity.

It wasn’t until today that she offered a glimpse into her frustration.

"Eron Montjoy," she said as the sun set, her voice a mixture of concern and determination. I remained silent, unwilling to open my eyes. "There’s nothing."

What was she searching for?

"I returned to the building," she continued, her voice trembling slightly. "They won’t tell me anything because I’m not family. Who in your family lives there, Eron? Why hasn’t anyone come to visit you? I know you’re listening."

"And I told you not to meddle in my life," I replied, anger flaring.

I didn’t want her pity.

Disgusting pity.

If my mother could worry about something other than work or my grades, perhaps I’d stop complaining about my life. My father, Lucas Montjoy, had left years ago without explanation. He wouldn’t show up here, not even if I were dying. They had no idea I was here, nor did I reach out to them.

There were times I’d escape to South Dakota, wandering for days without a soul knowing my whereabouts, often ending up at a friend’s place after a night of rap battles. Those moments of connection had spurred creativity, but now they felt like a distant memory.

It had been months since I found myself in that world, and I longed to return to those carefree days. But time moved forward, mercilessly erasing the past.

"You’re hopeless," Dakota said, exasperation lacing her words. "I need to know if any of Favie’s relatives live here."

"They all returned home after what happened," I replied.

"Ah, damn. I’m out of options," she sighed, her frustration palpable. "Is it really that expensive to get a bus there? Do you think they’d agree to go and ask?"

"They’re not that foolish. Faven’s family is the last group to dig into the past."